Tomas Dubsky

Irene Adler - False Game

Prologue: The Mysterious Trail

Part One: The Letter from a Stranger

London, October 1896

The dark waters of the Thames reflected the glow of gas lamps standing like bronze sentinels along the embankment, wrapped in a shroud of mist. The air smelled of rain and coal, as it so often did in London in October, and amid the clatter of carriages and the measured footsteps of night-time pedestrians, the click of a woman’s heels in a dark cloak was lost to the night.

Irene Adler was returning from an evening performance at the Royal Opera—the title role in Norma  still echoed in her ears as though the orchestra had never ceased playing. The cab that had dropped her at the corner house in Bloomsbury had been warm, but the pavement was already cooling—the cold stone slipping beneath her soles like the shadow of a memory.

The house where she lived was brick, with dark green shutters and three narrow storeys—the typical residence of a lady who valued order but not ostentation. The hallway smelled of beeswax, dry lavender dust, and old wood. As she ascended the stairs, her dark silk dress rustled like leaves in the garden of a forgotten autumn.

At the foot of the stairs, her maid waited—a slight girl with hands folded over a white apron and an expression that suggested even the slightest deviation from the usual evening routine was worthy of note.

“It came this evening, madam,” she said softly, offering a silver tray bearing a single letter. “No postmark. It was slipped under the door.”

Irene paused on the second step. She stood still, as though the room had grown colder. She lifted the envelope—it was made of coarse, cheap paper, slightly crumpled, as though someone had clutched it in a sweaty palm. This was not the sort of paper used by her acquaintances, friends, or business associates.

She broke the wax seal—no crest, only a careless fingerprint—and unfolded the sheet. The handwriting was hurried, nervous—the ink smudged in places, as though the author had written with a knife at his throat or aboard a moving train.

Madam Adler,

Edward Vexley is dead. Do not ask why. Only know that what he knew was worth more than one life.

A Stranger (who wishes to remain alive)

Her fingers tightened around the paper. Edward Vexley.  The name cut through her memory like a gust of cold air. The banker—a man with eyes like steel coins and hands that never lied. He had helped her years ago—discreetly, quietly—when one of her former admirers had attempted to blackmail her with old letters. He had asked for nothing in return. Only friendship.

And now he was dead.

“When?” she asked the maid more sharply than she intended. The words escaped before she realized how harsh her voice sounded.

The girl took half a step back. “Mr. Vexley? It was whispered in the City yesterday. They say it was an accident. A fall from a window.”

Outside, beyond the window of her upstairs drawing room, rain streaked the glass like tears. She heard the distant chime of a clock—eleven strokes. London was asleep now, or at least pretending to be.

Irene looked at the letter again. The word accident  rang hollow in her mind. In this city, where every smile could be a mask and every gloved hand might hold a dagger, accident  was merely a polite veil over the truth. London had an excellent sense for euphemisms.

“Prepare my black coat,” she said quietly. “And send for a cab.”

The maid vanished without a word as Irene touched the letter once more—lightly, as though afraid it might crumble. In the fireplace, the embers were fading, and the room sank into half-shadow.

The evening, which had begun with arias, now ended in silence—a silence that whispered of death.

Part Two: The Man Who Knew Too Much

One Day Earlier, Scotland Yard

At the corner of Victoria Embankment and Derby Gate, where the Thames slid past like a shadow of state power, stood the grim edifice of Scotland Yard. Raindrops drummed against the windows of a second-floor office, its walls lined with wood as dark as old blood, the air thick with the scent of paper, wax, and tobacco smoke.

Detective William Melville sat behind his oak desk—solid as a vault—running his fingertip along the edge of a banknote just handed to him by a young clerk from the Bank of England. He wore a black coat over a rough woolen waistcoat, and his sharply carved features resembled a statue hewn from calm but unyielding stone.

“This is the third this month,” Melville said in a low, veiled voice. “And just as good as the ones before.”

The clerk—a nervous young man with a pale face and red blotches on his neck—nodded. His shoes were still damp from the fog near Cornhill, and his coat was smudged with soot from the omnibus.

“Perfect,” he admitted. “Except for this.” He pointed delicately to the edge of the note, where a tiny flaw was visible—a slight break in the regular pattern of lines, almost imperceptible to the human eye. “A printing defect. The same on all of them.”

Melville reached into a drawer, retrieved a heavy brass magnifying glass, and held it over the spot. His eyes narrowed in concentration, as though he were trying to pierce the very heart of the paper.

“It’s there,” he murmured. “The same flaw. The same origin.” He leaned back in his chair, which creaked with old wood. “A gang. Professionals. And someone’s protecting them. Someone with access.”

In the corner of the room, a constable stood with a notebook, silent as furniture. Rain had dripped onto his hat before he entered, leaving damp footprints on the floor.

Melville turned to Inspector Higgins, an older man with a white beard who sat nearby, lighting his pipe.

“Who was handling Vexley?” Melville asked. The tension in the air thickened at once.

“Inspector Druscovich,” Higgins replied, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Claims it was suicide.”

Melville’s eyes, until now calm, sharpened suddenly.

“Druscovich,” he repeated, as though rolling the name around in his mouth. “The one who bought a new house in Notting Hill last year? At a price exceeding twenty years of his salary?”

The clerk paled. He lowered his eyes and clenched the banknote in his fingers.

“I couldn’t confirm it,” he muttered. “But Mr. Vexley said he’d discovered something. Something he couldn’t trust to the Yard. He wanted to handle it through us. Internally.”

Melville slowly folded the banknote and slipped it into a file that already held two others—secured with string, as was done in investigations that reached too high to be conducted openly.

Outside, the fog thickened, draping the lamps like funeral veils. Below, people hurried past with bowed heads, coats pulled tight, umbrellas trembling in the night wind. In the distance, Big Ben tolled—a heavy, mournful note, like those that rang for executions at the Tower.

“Very well,” said Melville. “Then we begin with who had reason to silence Vexley. And then we find out who’s printing their own truth—at a hundred pounds a sheet.”

Irene Enters the Game

Chapter One: The Lady with French Manners

L ondon, October 1896

The mirror in Irene’s dressing room reflected a woman who was no longer Irene Adler. Dark hair, meticulously pinned into a severe chignon, eyes subtly lined, lips shaded into a shape that bore no resemblance to her natural smile. On the ring finger of her left hand gleamed a broad gold band—the symbolic proof of her widowhood.

Tension hung in the air, seeping into the silk-covered walls and the furniture that had seen better days. The heavy green drapes allowed only slivers of light from the gas lamps outside. The room smelled of rosewater and burnt wicks.

"Madame Elise Duvall,"  Irene murmured to the empty room, tilting her head in a slow, deliberate nod, as though bowing to an invisible audience. The accent was flawless—a faint but unmistakable Parisian lilt, perfected during her years in the opera.

The dressing room door opened, and Sophie, her faithful maid, slipped inside. In her hands was a letter bearing a wax seal.

"The final touch, madame." She handed it over. "A letter of introduction from Monsieur Lefèvre of the Paris Numismatic Society. He said it would suit your... needs precisely."

Irene broke the seal and skimmed the lines of flattery praising "Madame Duvall’s exceptional taste."  A smirk played at the corners of her lips.

"Perfect."

Sophie twisted her hands nervously. "Madame, I—"

"Speak, Sophie." Irene set the letter aside and adjusted her collar.

"This is too dangerous. Those men—if they discover who you really are—"

"That is precisely why it must be perfect." Irene turned her head, and in the dim lamplight, her eyes gleamed like blades. "Edward Vexley died because he uncovered their secret. And I do not intend to meet the same fate."

The Auction

The hall at Christie’s hummed with the voices of wealthy merchants and aristocrats, their chatter rising like a persistent drone. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen icicles above the crowd, their light refracting off silver trays and gilded catalog edges. Masterpieces lined the walls, each numbered, each whispering: Own me—or at least try.

Irene—now fully inhabiting the role of Madame Duvall—moved with a grace that drew glances. Her black silk dress whispered with each step, though none could guess she had a small notebook stitched into her petticoat. Her perfume, a faint trace of violets and ambergris, seemed to announce her before she spoke.

The auctioneer raised a banknote. "A rare 1887 specimen, limited edition from the Bank of England. Starting bid: fifty pounds."

Irene lifted her fan to conceal a smile. The note was a counterfeit—and not a particularly good one. But that was precisely why she needed it.

"Sixty," she said smoothly.

A murmur rippled through the room. The man to her right—gaunt, with iron-gray whiskers—glanced at her.

"Seventy," he grunted.

"Eighty." Irene didn’t even look up.

The man leaned closer. "Madame, that note isn’t worth more than forty."

"Perhaps not to a connoisseur," she replied with amused disdain. "But I am not buying paper. I am buying a story."

The man—who soon introduced himself as Alistair Cox, a banker—studied her with sudden interest.

"Madame Duvall, is it?" He signaled a waiter to bring her champagne. "I believe we should talk. I know people who would appreciate your... taste."

Irene gave a slow nod. The first fish was hooked.

The Conversation with Cox

In the back room of one of Mayfair’s oldest gentlemen’s clubs, behind leather-bound doors and beneath the portrait of a former Lord Chancellor, Irene and Cox sat at a mahogany table. The walls were adorned with swords, hunting trophies, and colonial memorabilia—fitting decor for men who liked to play conquerors even at home.

Cox offered her a cigar. She declined with a polite smile.

"You’re a collector, madame. What draws you to such... unusual pieces?"

"My late husband dealt in art," Irene said. "And I learned that true value lies not in what is official, but in what is rare."

Cox’s smile was like a crack in ice. "Then you must meet an associate of mine. A man who collects very interesting reproductions."

"How delightful." Irene sipped her champagne. "What is his name?"

"He will tell you himself." Cox produced a card. "Tomorrow at six. The Golden Quill Club. Ask for Mr. Carr."

As Irene left the auction house, she felt eyes upon her. She turned—but the corridor was empty. Only a flicker of light in the mirror, which might have been anything... or anyone. At the exit, a wineglass rattled as a clumsy messenger brushed past. The night air outside was thick with coal smoke and the distant clatter of hooves on cobblestones.

Sophie had been right. This was a game. And one misstep would mean the end.

Chapter Two: A Visit to the Notorious Club

London, November 1896

London was drowning in evening fog as Irene Adler—now fully immersed in the persona of Madame Elise Duvall—stepped before the unassuming façade of The Golden Quill . The building looked respectably old-fashioned, but the heavy oak doors and the scar-faced man at the entrance suggested something far less decorous than afternoon tea.

Entering the Lion’s Den

"Your invitation, madame?" the doorman rumbled as Irene approached.

She handed him Cox’s card with an icy smile. "Mr. Carr is expecting me."

The man narrowed his eyes but finally nodded. "Second floor, the salon by the stairs."

From the room behind him came a muffled cough and the clink of glass on porcelain. Irene stepped inside with the confidence of an actress who knows her stage before she sets foot on it.

The club’s interior felt like stepping into another world. Heavy drapes swallowed sound, the air was thick with expensive tobacco and brandy, and gaslight cast shifting shadows on the walls. Most patrons sat in secluded corners, speaking in hushed tones, occasionally exchanging suspicious parcels.

Marble nymphs in the corners watched with expressions that could have been mocking—or warning. A gramophone in the main hall played a muted waltz, an odd irony—music for dancing, yet no one moved.

Meeting Joe Carr

Joe Carr—a man with a carefully trimmed beard and an expensive but tasteless suit—was already waiting at a corner table. He rose with exaggerated gallantry.

"Madame Duvall! So you’re the famed collector Cox told me about."

"Famed?" Irene laughed as she sat. "That would be too grand a word. Merely... passionate."

Carr smirked. "Passion is an expensive habit. And I have something that may interest you."

From his inner pocket, he produced a flat case. Inside lay a banknote—at first glance, an old pound sterling, but Irene immediately recognized it as counterfeit. The same design as the one at Christie’s, only better.

"A rare colonial specimen," Carr said, eyes gleaming. "Very limited edition."

Irene took the note, pretending to examine it. The paper was smooth, the print sharp—almost flawless. A master’s work , she thought.

"Exquisite," she whispered, feigning admiration. "Your price?"

Carr grinned. "For you, madame—two hundred pounds."

Irene laughed as if it were a game. "I’ll give you four hundred."

His smile froze. No one had ever doubled his asking price before.

"You... are serious?"

"Naturally." Irene inclined her head. "Quality deserves recognition."

In the distance, the stairs creaked under heavy footsteps. A cough sounded, and Irene caught a fragment of conversation—something about "the new batch from the printer."

Being Watched

From a nearby table, a man with piercing eyes and a pallid face observed her—Charles Ludwig, a forger whose genius was matched only by his paranoia. He whispered to a guard, gesturing toward Irene.

His hands were long and restless, fingers rubbing at his joints as if warding off a perpetual chill. A fresh ink stain marked his sleeve.

Irene noticed their scrutiny but betrayed no unease. Instead, she "accidentally" dropped her glove near Ludwig’s table.

"Oh, pardon," she said as she bent to retrieve it.

Ludwig stiffened. Their eyes met—and in that moment, a silent warning passed between them. I know who you are , his gaze said.

But I know more , her amused smile replied.

His fingers tightened around his glass, the thin crystal chiming in protest.

Departure and Shadow

Carr was delighted. "Madame, you simply must meet my... associate. The man who curates these pieces."

"That would be splendid," Irene said.

When she stepped outside, the night greeted her with a cold breath. The streets were slick from rain, the gas lamps glowed dimly, and the distant clatter of hooves echoed like a drumbeat.

She climbed into a hansom cab—but before it pulled away, she glimpsed two men in the window’s reflection, quickly boarding another carriage.

Ludwig’s men.

Sophie had been right. This was dangerous.

But that was precisely what made it thrilling.

Chapter Three: The First Test of Trust

The London rain drummed against the windows of the private sitting room at The Royal Crown, where Irene waited for Joe Carr. The room smelled of aged wood and expensive tobacco, but beneath this veneer of elegance lurked tension.

An antique floor lamp cast golden pools of light on the walls, and the heavy mirror above the fireplace doubled the image of a woman who appeared calm, though her thoughts raced. The clock on the wall ticked with a dry, almost curt precision. Irene watched as shadows danced inquisitively across the ceiling, and the silence around her grew heavy, as if suspicion itself were creeping into the room.

Carr entered with a jovial smile, its breadth betraying several prior drinks.

"Madame Duvall! My apologies for the delay. London’s streets are rather… disagreeable today."

Irene smiled faintly, raising her fan to her lips. "All things of beauty require time, Mr. Carr. And I am a patient woman."

They sat at the mahogany table, where Carr laid out a leather case. With theatrical flourish, he opened it to reveal a banknote that gleamed in the lamplight.

"This, madame, is a true treasure. A rare colonial note from the Caribbean. Only three exist."

Irene leaned forward to examine it. The paper was unusually dense, the print immaculate—nearly indistinguishable from the real thing. Ludwig’s work,  she thought.

"Oh, this is… astonishing,"  she whispered, feigning awe. She traced a finger lightly over the surface, as if admiring a masterpiece. "The print quality is exceptional. One might almost call it… perfect."

Outside, a coachman’s muffled shout and the clatter of iron wheels on cobblestones broke the silence. Irene tensed momentarily, her ear sharp, but her expression remained unreadable—a statue of perfect composure.

Carr’s smile widened. He was accustomed to wealthy buyers, but none had ever shown such enthusiasm for the details.

"You truly understand craftsmanship, madame. Most people see only numbers."

"Numbers are dull,"  Irene replied with a faint smirk. "But perfection… that is rare."

She paused, then abruptly met his gaze. "Do you have more pieces like this?"

Carr hesitated. It was a test—and Irene knew it.

"Perhaps…"  he said carefully. "But the finest pieces are managed by my… associate. A man of exceptional taste."

"Oh, I should love to meet him,"  Irene breathed, her eyes alight. "A man who truly understands the value of such treasures."

Carr chuckled and poured himself another glass of port. "William Kurr is… a particular man. But for you, madame, he might make an exception."

The fire crackled, and for a fraction of a second, Irene’s gaze flickered to the flames, as if searching for an omen in their dance. But her eyes swiftly returned to Carr, her smile unbroken. Nothing in her expression betrayed how intimately she knew that name.

When Irene left the hotel, the rain had ceased, but the fog lingered. The air was thick, the streets silent save for distant footsteps.

On a far corner, a gas lamp hissed, glinted in the glass, then flickered out—as if even the light feared revealing too much. The carriage horses pawed restlessly, as though the mist carried a warning.

Then—a shadow.

Someone stood in the alley across from the hotel.

Irene slowed her step but did not stop smiling. So, they know I’m here.

Water still dripped from the eaves, a rhythm one could count steps to. The whisper of buckles, the shift of a coat, a flicker of movement at the edge of vision—details others would miss, she noted with absolute clarity.

She turned toward the waiting carriage but at the last moment glanced back into the darkness where the figure stood.

"Good evening, Mr. Ludwig,"  she murmured, though she knew he could not hear her.

Then she vanished into the coach, while the shadow dissolved into the mist.

The carriage wheels rolled into the gloom like the words of a letter—now sealed, and sent into the hands of fate.

Chapter Four: Meeting Kurr – A Game of Cat and Mouse

London, November 1896

The drapes in the private sitting room were drawn tight against prying eyes. A heavy crystal chandelier cast flickering light onto the table where William Kurr—a man with meticulously combed gray hair and an expensive suit—sat with his hands steepled before him.

Maritime oil paintings lined the walls, one depicting a frigate shattered against storm-wracked cliffs—an image that seemed to mirror the nature of this meeting. In the corner, a marble fireplace burned quietly, warming the room just enough to allow conversation without overcoats—but not enough to let one forget vigilance.

"Madame Duvall,"  Kurr said with a polished, icy smile. "Joe Carr spoke of you with great enthusiasm."

Irene sat with the grace honed during her years in opera. Her posture was straight, her movements precise—not a hint of uncertainty. "Mr. Kurr, your reputation precedes you. I’m delighted we’ve finally met."

Kurr’s eyes—steel-gray—assessed her. It was a gaze that had compelled many to confess things they never intended to say. His hands rested on the table like sculpted forms—still, but poised with latent threat.

"Carr mentioned you are interested in investing in… rare prints."

"Indeed,"  Irene nodded, opening her fine leather case. "To demonstrate my sincerity, I’ve brought a deposit."

She placed a small pouch on the table. When loosened, five gold coins spilled out.

Each landed with the muted chime known only to bankers, fences, and high-stakes gamblers.

Kurr lifted one, letting it catch the light.

"French napoléons,"  he observed. "An interesting choice."

His voice was calm, but the blade beneath his tone would be clear to anyone who knew how to listen.

"My late husband always said gold was the only true currency,"  Irene replied. "And I have contacts in Paris who may be very interested in your… merchandise."

Kurr set the coin down. His expression did not change, but something flickered in the corner of his eye—a thought, a calculation, perhaps suspicion.

"Madame, I am merely a middleman. My supplier is a cautious man. He does not care for new faces."

"Charles Ludwig, yes?"

Kurr stiffened.

For a moment, the room was utterly still. The fire crackled; somewhere in the distance, a steamboat whistled on the Thames.

Irene laughed lightly, as if it were an inconsequential remark. "Mr. Kurr, in my trade, knowing names is essential. And I know Mr. Ludwig is the finest craftsman in his field."

Kurr’s gaze sharpened, but his lips remained fixed in a professional smile. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his silhouette suddenly taller, more menacing.

Outside the door, footsteps sounded.

Heavy. Measured. Not the hotel staff. These were the steps of a man who carried not hope—but purpose.

Kurr tilted his head slightly. "Madame Duvall, allow me to be frank. This business is not for amateurs. Should you entertain any… unwise ideas—"

"Mr. Kurr,"  Irene interrupted with an icy smile, "I am not a woman who wastes time. Nor gold."

At that moment, the door opened—and Charles Ludwig stepped in.

His presence sent a peculiar tremor through the air, as if the room had suddenly shrunk. He wore a long black coat with a high collar, beneath which a narrow cravat was tied in a Prussian knot. His eyes—deep-set, shadowed by wrinkles—fixed on Irene without so much as a nod.

He closed the door behind him—no greeting, no word. And the silence that followed was thick as a soup no one dared stir.

Chapter Five: Ludwig's Suspicions

London, November 1896

A Visit to the Lion's Den

Charles Ludwig's workshop was hidden in an unassuming warehouse near the docks. From the outside, the building appeared as just another relic of industry—blackened brick, cracked windows, and rusted door hinges. But behind its heavy oak doors lay another world entirely.

Inside, it was a temple of precision and obsession. Long ebony worktables were strewn with copper plates, their surfaces gleaming like mirrors in the dim light. Shelves held dozens of ink vials—indigo from Bengal, carmine from the Tyrol, turquoise powder from Persian mines—and paper samples finer than silk, each labeled in meticulous script with dates and origins.

Irene stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the stone tiles. She paused. The air here was different—not like rooms meant merely as backdrops for human drama. This was the atmosphere of a laboratory: the sharp scent of acid, metal, ink, and silence.

"Madame Duvall,"  Ludwig greeted without looking up. He stood over a copper plate engraved with the beginnings of a five-pound note. "Do you know the difference between etching and engraving?"

It was a question—but his tone carried the weight of a verdict. The first of many.

A Test of Knowledge

Irene smiled—the smile of a woman who knew the rules of the game because she had written them herself—and approached. Her steps were sure, as if she had walked this floor a hundred times before.

"Etching uses acid to carve the design,"  she replied. "Engraving is done directly with a burin. Each has its place."

Ludwig finally looked up. His eyes were like calibrated instruments—precise, cold, and merciless.

"And why would one choose one over the other?"

"Because engraving gives sharper lines,"  she answered without hesitation. "But etching is faster for intricate details. And easier to correct."

She glanced at the shelf of finished banknotes and moved toward it. Picking one up carefully between thumb and forefinger, she studied it. "This is your work? Marvelous. I see you’ve combined both techniques."

Ludwig watched her like a cat observing a mouse that moved too cleverly.

"Most collectors wouldn’t know the difference."

"Most collectors are fools,"  Irene said, retrieving a loupe from her purse. She held it over the note and nodded. "Here—this delicate curve in the crown. No one else would notice. But I do."

A Shared Obsession

Something in Ludwig shifted. His shoulders relaxed; the tension in his jaw eased. For the first time, he seemed animated—not as a criminal, but as a man who had spent a lifetime misunderstood.

"Exactly!"  he exclaimed, almost enthusiastic. "Those fools at the Bank of England have used the same pattern for twenty years. The same stupid flourish on the crest, always five microns wider than the rest!"  He lifted the copper plate and pointed to a nearly imperceptible flaw. "Here, near the initials, I added my own mark. A pattern from medieval cathedral geometry. No professional would spot it—but I know it’s there."

Irene leaned closer. Her breath fogged the edge of the plate. "Brilliant. True artistry isn’t in copying—it’s in perfecting."

For the first time, Ludwig almost smiled. Not fully—more as if remembering an old, long-abandoned joy.

"You... understand,"  he murmured.

"I understand you, Mr. Ludwig,"  she whispered. "Kurr sees only profit. But you—you are an artist."

The Shadow of Doubt

When they parted, Ludwig shook her hand—the first time he had touched her. His grip was cool, dry, the clasp of a technician, not a businessman.

But in his eyes—those infinitely dark eyes—remained a flicker of something else. Distrust. Perhaps even fear.

"Come back tomorrow,"  he said quietly. "I’ll show you something special."

Irene nodded. But as she stepped out into the cold November air, she stopped—and without turning her head, caught the silhouette of a man in a hat from the corner of her eye.

He stood across the street. Motionless.

Melville?

The workshop was being watched. And now—so was she.

Chapter Six: Trust Earned

London, December 1896

An Offer That Reeks of a Trap

Kurr’s messenger delivered the letter personally—elegant, heavy paper embossed with a wax seal. The boy had a grimy collar and movements too polished, as if mimicking high society without knowing its language.

"Madame Duvall, we are honored to offer you an exclusive collection of five pieces. Expect you at the usual location at 6 p.m. tonight."

Irene ran a finger over the seal. It was red as blood, but beneath it, she felt a hairline crack—barely noticeable, yet unmistakable to a trained touch. Someone had opened and resealed it, likely in haste. An old French adage came to mind: "Every seal is either a promise—or a trap."

The test had begun.

A Performance for Spies

In the dockside office, lit only by a single gas lamp hanging from a chain, Ludwig spread the banknotes across green baize. The table smelled of old wood and ink.

"This is our latest work,"  he said, a thread of pride in his rough voice. "Flawless in every detail."

Irene donned a monocle—the same one her uncle in Marseille had once owned—and examined each note with deliberate care. Her movements were graceful but precise, as if conducting a dance only she knew the steps to.

"Exquisite,"  she remarked. "But why only five? I thought we were discussing a larger quantity."

In the corner, Kurr sat motionless, his face merging with the shadows as if he had always been there. Only two glinting eyes were visible beneath his hat brim.

"A starting point, madame,"  he said without shifting. "To see how you... conduct business."

Irene met Ludwig’s gaze. A fine tension hung between them. He knew. Or at least suspected she wasn’t playing by his or Kurr’s rules.

"Of course,"  she replied smoothly. "I understand the need for caution."

The False Move

As she accepted the package, she noted every detail as if performing open-heart surgery:

The notes were sequentially numbered—a mistake Ludwig, a perfectionist obsessed with chaotic sequences, would never make.

The paper was a micron thinner than standard. She rubbed it between her fingers as if testing fabric for a ballgown.

On the corner of the third note was a tiny ink smudge, so faint an amateur would miss it. To her, it was a mark—a code, a sign, a tracking point.

This isn’t the real merchandise. It’s bait.

"Thank you, gentlemen,"  she said calmly, tucking the package into her purse. "My associate in Paris will be delighted."

The Shadow at Her Back

Outside, the night fog draped the streets like an unspoken threat. The gas lamps cast long cones of light that swallowed more darkness than they dispelled. Irene headed for the carriage but gave the driver firm, clear instructions:

"You’re not taking me home. Stop at the bank on Threadneedle Street."

Inside, the black-and-white marble floor slid beneath her heels like ice.

"I need to deposit valuables in the vault,"  she told the clerk loudly enough for the man in the gray coat—Harry Spain, Kurr’s rat, always one step behind—to hear.

She spent ten minutes in the vault, where she:

Replaced the real banknotes with a bundle of blank papers, folded and tied with the same ribbon.

Placed the counterfeit decoys into an envelope labeled "For Monsieur Delacroix—Paris"  in handwriting with deliberate inconsistencies, as if penned in haste.

Left the vault door slightly ajar—just enough for Spain, peering through a crack in the wall, to see exactly what her mind, not his eyes, wanted him to see.

The Spy Who Became a Pawn

When she left the bank, Spain was no longer at his post. His footprints vanished into the slush like proof that nothing in London stayed visible for long.

Irene knew where he was rushing—back to Kurr with "proof" of her loyalty. And how he would speak, with that tone of smug triumph unique to men who don’t realize they’ve been used.

But what Spain didn’t know:

The envelope for "Delacroix"  contained only scribbled scraps resembling a lunch receipt.

The real counterfeits were already in the hands of her contact—a quiet man in a gray suit from Scotland Yard, waiting in the vault access, who merely nodded as she handed over the genuine package without meeting her eyes.

Spain’s report—detailed, precise, unwavering—would only cement her standing with Kurr. And that was all that mattered.

The Game Continues

As Irene returned to her apartment, the fog thickened. The lantern above her door glowed into the void like a beacon waiting for a ship that would never come.

She smiled into the darkness. Not for herself. Not for Spain. But for that moment when an opponent does exactly what you want, unaware they’re playing your game.

"Good evening, Mr. Spain,"  she murmured, her voice echoing on the wet pavement.

The only reply was the rustle of a cloak in a dark alley—or perhaps just leaves. But Irene knew someone had moved. And that her step into the trap was the first of many that would soon close around them all.

Double Game

Chapter Seven: A Chess Match with Harry Spain

London Docks, December 1896

Bait for the Greedy

Harry Spain hunched nervously in the corner of the Golden Quill’s smoking lounge as Irene approached, a glass of sherry in hand. His fingers traced the scratches on a silver cigarette case—a gift from Kurr for his last "job well done."

"Mr. Spain,"  Irene addressed him sweetly, "I happened to hear you were seeking new... business opportunities."

Spain’s eyes gleamed. "That depends on the opportunity, madame."

Irene leaned closer, her perfume mingling with the scent of cheap tobacco. "I have a friend in Vienna. A man with an insatiable appetite for English banknotes—and an equally vast fortune."

Spain’s bravado faltered. "How vast?"

"Ten thousand pounds a year."  Irene let the number hang in the air. "But he requires a sample. Only the finest quality."

Spain cleared his throat, scanned the room, and leaned in. "Tomorrow night. Warehouse forty-seven. But come alone."

Irene merely smiled. The pawn was moving exactly where she needed it.

An Unauthorized Tour

The fog-drenched alleys near the docks blurred the outline of Warehouse 47. Spain stumbled ahead of Irene, glancing back every few steps to ensure they weren’t followed.

"Kurr would kill me if he knew I brought you here,"  he muttered, but turned a heavy key in the lock.

Inside, the air reeked of damp paper and printing chemicals. Irene noted three things at once:

Stacks of unmarked Belgian banknote paper

Partially finished bills missing serial numbers

Two police uniforms hanging by the door—one with a distinct ink stain on the collar

"This is... impressive,"  she whispered, her mind working faster than Ludwig’s printing press. Druscovich and Meiklejohn. Here’s their trail.

At the back, she spotted a wooden crate stamped with the government supplier’s seal. The label— "Reserved for Treasury Office" —did not escape her notice.

Spain threw a tarp over it as if hiding his own conscience. "You didn’t see that, clear?"

Irene nodded, committing every shadow and line to memory.

Anonymous Allies

Meanwhile, at Scotland Yard, Melville was counting counterfeit bills from the latest raid when a messenger handed him a note.

"Docklands, Warehouse 47. Tonight. Come alone, or you’ll find empty walls."

The handwriting was feminine—elegant but deliberately unpolished. Melville’s grip tightened. Who is sending me this?

A full raid would give the gang time to warn their police contacts. He decided to risk it. With a revolver in his pocket and two trusted men in plainclothes nearby, he stepped into the night.

Near Whitechapel, a drunk sailor with an anchor tattoo brushed past him. Melville didn’t slow. Every second wasted meant lost evidence—or worse, a life.

The Trap is Sprung

As Spain led Irene toward the back exit, he froze. Footsteps echoed outside.

"Blast it! That’s Melville!"  Spain whirled on Irene, panic in his eyes. "How did he know?"

Irene shrugged, but her eyes glittered with triumph. "Perhaps his informants are better than yours, Mr. Spain."

A crash sounded—the front door slamming open. Spain seized Irene’s wrist and yanked her into a dark alcove of crates.

"Not a sound,"  he hissed, his free hand reaching for the knife at his belt.

Outside, Melville’s voice rang out: "Scotland Yard! Open up!"

Spain pressed his ear to a gap in the planks. Melville stepped inside with the caution of a man expecting skeletons in every corner. Spain’s breath grew ragged, his grip on the knife whitening his knuckles.

Irene glanced at the crate beside her. Scrawled in chalk: "D&M" —Druscovich & Meiklejohn. Proof. If she survived the next five minutes.

Spain shifted—but before he could slip out, a rooster’s crow sounded outside. A signal. Melville paused. And smiled.

Chapter Eight: A Dance with the Police

London Docks, December 1896 – Later That Night

Blood and Silver

While Spain held Irene in the alcove, chaos erupted at the front of the warehouse. Crates splintered, boots pounded, voices shouted.

"Hold them!"  Melville barked.

A wooden crate slammed to the floor like a gunshot, waking the entire dockyard. The air thickened with ink, smoke, and mildew. Police coats flapped as detectives surged forward, tripping over scattered sacks and debris.

Irene squinted through a gap in the crates and saw something far more interesting than the raid.

Inspector Druscovich—whose face she knew from newspapers—stood by an iron door, accepting a heavy sack from Kurr’s lieutenant. The clink of coins inside was unmistakable.

Druscovich’s eyes darted with predatory precision. His movements were assured, as if accustomed to never being questioned. A flashlight beam caught his profile against a crate labeled Empire & Crown Printing —an image Irene burned into memory like an etching.

"Not a sight for ladies,"  Spain hissed, trying to pull her back.

Irene feigned shock, covering her mouth. "Good heavens! That’s—a policeman!"

Spain didn’t reply. Sweat beaded on his temples as he listened. Irene, the picture of frailty, let her hand trail along the crates to a ledger on the table—Kurr’s monogram stamped into the leather.

It was heavy, its corners worn, but the pages inside smelled of fresh ink and secrets that could topple the city’s financial spine. Irene knew she held something more valuable than evidence—a key to names, dates, and figures she could wield later.

Escape and Clues

A sharp whistle pierced the air. Druscovich shouldered the sack and vanished into a dark passage.

"Back exit!"  Spain yanked Irene forward.

Over broken crates and glass shards, through piles of sawdust, Irene stumbled, the ledger pressed to her side. Her fingers—trained on piano keys and the pockets of society ladies—now clutched a prize greater than any jewel.

In the chaos:

She tucked the ledger under her corset

Tore a monogrammed handkerchief in half

Left one piece beside a sack of counterfeits

Melville arrived just in time to see:

A bent nail holding a police uniform

A shiny five-pound counterfeit on the floor

A scrap of fine Belgian linen with a monogram

He picked up the handkerchief, eyes narrowing.

In the dust, a drop of ink glistened—on the inside of a corset, invisible to others. But Melville saw. And recognized. This was no accident.

A Conversation in Shadows

Outside, Spain wheezed like a bellows.

"Too close! Kurr will kill us if he finds— What’s that?"

Irene instinctively touched her corset. "Just... my handkerchief. I had to leave the other piece behind."

Spain’s eyes narrowed. "Behind? With Melville?"

Tension hung between them, sharp as a blade. Pale light from a dock lantern cast their shadows on wet cobblestones, merging them into a two-headed beast.

Irene suddenly laughed. "Mr. Spain, you think I did that on purpose? I nearly fainted from fright!"

Her voice broke at precisely the right moment. Her eyes glistened—whether from tears or triumph was unclear. Spain hesitated, then waved her off.

"Never mind. We need to disappear. Kurr will want answers."

Around the corner, a constable’s lantern flickered. Both vanished into an alley where freshly pasted posters heralded the coming year—1897.

Melville’s Midnight Musings

Back in his office, Melville studied the handkerchief under a lamp.

"Belgian linen,"  he muttered. "Perfume... violets and something exotic. Jasmine?"

His assistant leaned in. "That Frenchwoman tangled up with Kurr? Madame Duvall?"

Melville traced the embroidery. "Perhaps. But why help us? And why hide?"

Outside, rain began to drum against the windows like a warning.

Melville stood, tossed coal into the fireplace, and stared. His eyes held the look of a man who sees the whole web—but not yet the hand pulling the strings.

On the desk lay one more thing: a counterfeit five-pound note, flawless but for one detail—a missing serial number. Melville held it to the light.

"Belgian presswork. Kurr. But the hand guiding it may not be his."

In the distance, Big Ben struck midnight. The game had only just begun.

Chapter Nine: Shadows Behind the Curtain

London, December 1896 – Three O’Clock in the Morning

The Scotland Yard office reeked of musty paper and cheap tobacco as Inspector Meiklejohn barged in without knocking. William Melville looked up from the banknotes spread across his desk, his fingers still dusted with silver powder from the counterfeiting press.

“Melville,” Meiklejohn barked, his face flushing beneath thick side-whiskers, “enough! Drop this damned forgery case!”

Melville slowly set down his magnifying glass. “A curious request, Inspector. Especially from a man who met with William Kurr at the Thames docks last night.”

Meiklejohn flinched. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his left eye twitched. The tension between them thickened like the fog outside.

Leaning across the desk, his breath reeking of gin, Meiklejohn hissed, “You don’t know what you’re meddling in. Some shadows are best left undisturbed.”

“I have a peculiar habit of waking the dead,” Melville replied calmly, pulling open a drawer that held a photograph of Druscovich accepting a bribe.

Beneath the photograph lay something else—a matchbox from the Silvertip  club. Proof the meeting was no accident. Melville placed it between them like the final move in a game that was far from over.

The Numbers That Scream

In the darkness of her room at the Ritz Hotel, Irene Adler bent over a stolen ledger, the flicker of a single candle casting long shadows. The pages were filled with coded entries, but her sharp eyes quickly deciphered the system:

“12.11 – M – 200”  (Meiklejohn, £200)

*“15.11 – D – 150 + expenses”* (Druscovich, plus "expenses" for covering operations)

“Regular payments every 4th Tuesday”

Her smile was sharper than a blade. “So here lies your lost honor, gentlemen.”

On the next page:

“Special commission – P.M. – 400”

P.M.? Political motive? Police magistrate? Irene frowned. This abbreviation was unfamiliar.

Suddenly—a slip of paper slid under the door. She snatched it up:

“Madame, Ludwig knows. Spain is watching you. Tonight.”

It was unsigned. But the handwriting—sleek, slanted, penned with a gold-nibbed fountain—she recognized instantly. Melville.

He knew where she was. And he had risked a warning.

Paranoia at the Docks

In Ludwig’s printing shop, the air was thick with tension. The counterfeiter slammed his fist on the table, scattering engravings across the floor.

“That French bitch is a police dog! I saw how she looked at those banknotes—not as a collector, but as a detective!”

Kurr calmly lit a cigar. “Proof?”

“Instinct!” Ludwig turned to Spain, lingering in the doorway. “Follow her. Every move. And if you find anything…” He left the sentence unfinished, dragging a finger across his throat.

Spain nodded and vanished into the night mist.

The door creaked shut behind him but remained slightly ajar. Kurr stared into the street for a moment before turning back, his voice now cold and surgically precise.

“If he’s right, Ludwig, we’re in a game that stopped being ours long ago.”

The Hunt Begins

Irene left the hotel accompanied by her maid—but Sophie had an unusual task tonight:

Wear Irene’s coat and hat.

Board the carriage at the corner.

Divert Spain’s attention.

Meanwhile, Irene slipped out the back disguised as a footman, watching as Spain leapt into a second cab, trailing her decoy.

She lingered in the alleyway, surveying the horizon: fog rolled over the rooftops, streetlamps casting jagged shadows on the cobblestones. Taking a deep breath, she slung an old coat over her shoulder and strode toward Melville’s Kensington flat.

“Let’s see who’s following whom, Mr. Spain,” she whispered, vanishing into the lane leading to Melville’s residence. She had to deliver the ledger—but how without revealing herself?

At the street corner, she paused. A carriage with a white horse stood precisely where it should—unremarkable yet exact.

Inside: an old shopping basket, its contents wrapped in newspaper. Just as instructed.

When Melville left for his morning briefing, he would find the answer he’d been waiting a month for.

From afar, the old bell of St. Martin’s Church groaned—four o’clock in the morning.

The game continued. And Irene knew the next move.

Chapter Ten: A Trap on Two Fronts

London, December 1896 – Three Days After the Warehouse Raid

Bait for a Spy

Irene Adler sat in the Zur Goldenen Kaffeekanne  café—a haunt favored by Austrian merchants. Before her lay a letter on embossed paper bearing a Vienna crest.

The scent of strong coffee mingled with the heavy perfume of a lady at the next table, while beyond the window, the leaden London sky loomed. Irene wore a veil-trimmed hat, kid gloves, and the expression of a woman who knew the price of attention—and how to measure it precisely.

“My dear friend,”  she read under her breath, acutely aware of Spain sitting two tables behind her, disguised as a German merchant, “your offer for fifty pieces is accepted. I shall arrive Tuesday with the full sum in cash. Yours, Baron von Hohenstein.”

Her voice carried just enough to reach the ears it needed to, yet remained intimate enough to seem private.

She deliberately left the letter on the table as she departed. Spain’s eyes followed her, but not his body—instead, he pounced on the abandoned table like a starved hawk.

The café buzzed with merchants and sample cases, but Spain heard only the gears of his own imagination whirring. He held a golden key—and perhaps a path back into Kurr’s favor.

A Chess Move

Spain delivered the letter to Kurr in his office above a Soho brothel.

“This is our chance!” he crowed. “Fifty pieces at full price!”

Kurr traced the crest with a finger. His nails were short but immaculate—very little about him seemed chaotic. Behind the mahogany desk, he was both shield and throne.

“Too good to be true. Who is this baron?”

“A wealthy Austrian. Madame Duvall mentioned him last week.”

Ludwig, silent in the corner, suddenly exploded: “It’s a trap! Why would a foreigner buy so many counterfeits? It must be—”

“Scotland Yard,” Kurr finished icily. “Spain, watch Duvall. Every step.”

Kurr’s gaze lifted to the ceiling as if he could see the entire map of London through it. Then he removed a glove, flexing his fingers like a man preparing a move that would divide the chessboard’s players into the living and the dead.

Panic Among the Corrupt

Meanwhile, in Inspector Meiklejohn’s flat, the stove burned red-hot.

“Tomorrow is Tuesday!” he screamed at Druscovich. “Melville has the list! Our whole team will hang!”

The flat was cluttered with old boxes, books, and the familiar stench of disinfectant masking unease.

He hurled bundles of banknotes—real and forged—into the flames. The smoke of burning ink stained the walls blue.

“Fool!” Druscovich tried to salvage some. “This is all we have!”

“Better ashes than the gallows!”

The window creaked open, a draft sending charred scraps swirling like lost souls. Flames licked the carpet, extinguished only by a blanket. The air was thick with ash and regret.

Druscovich seized the last unburned strongbox and fled—his shadows racing along the walls like crimes with nowhere left to hide.

Evidence in the Ashes

Melville stood over a metal bin of scorched remnants in Meiklejohn’s cellar. His team had found:

Unrecognizable uniform fragments

Partially burned police badges

Three intact counterfeits—the ones Druscovich hadn’t tossed into the fire

As he lifted one banknote, his hand trembled—not with emotion, but pure, razor-edged focus.

“This is proof at last,” Melville murmured, holding the note to the light. “But who, exactly, is helping me?”

In his pocket lay the second half of Irene’s handkerchief—the piece he’d found in Meiklejohn’s trash.

He pulled out the scrap of Belgian lace, matching it to the first. A perfect fit.

Melville leaned against the table, eyes closed, a plan unfolding in his mind. When the chessboard is stained with blood, there’s no choice but to play until checkmate.

Chapter Eleven: The Crack in the Mask

London, December 1896 – Early Morning

The Devil’s Detail

Charles Ludwig sat in the back room of his workshop, surrounded by Madame Duvall’s scattered letters. He pressed a magnifying glass so hard against his eye it left a red ring on his lid.

Shreds of silk envelopes, wax seals with tiny insignias, and vials of invisible ink solvents littered the table. Each document lay on dark velvet to contrast against the parchment’s pallor.

“Votre attention…”  he muttered, tracing a line with his finger. Then he froze.

“Kurr!” he rasped. “Look at this.”

Kurr read the sentence Ludwig pointed to: “Je suis enchantée de faire votre connaissance.”

“So?”

“It should be ‘enchanté’ —without the feminine ‘e’ ,” Ludwig hissed. “A native Frenchwoman would never write that. This is an Englishwoman playing Parisian.”

In the corner, Spain paled. The walls seemed to press closer. Outside, fog battered the windows, smearing the glass with blurred shapes, as if London itself held its breath.

Unannounced Visitors

Kurr turned to Spain. “How many times has this ‘Frenchwoman’  visited the bank since you’ve known her?”

Spain sputtered, “Twice… maybe three—”

“Six,” Ludwig cut in, slamming a bank ledger onto the table. “And each time, she went to the vault room. Why didn’t you tell us?”

The parchment unfurled like an indictment. Every line bore her name— Madame Élodie Duvall —alongside dates and clerks’ signatures.

Spain’s gaze darted between them like a cornered fox. “I thought she was storing jewels—”

Kurr slammed his fist down. “Fool! She was photographing our counterfeits!”

Footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the walls. Distant clocks struck eight. Spain mopped his brow, but the sweat wouldn’t stop. It burned hotter with every word.

“If she’s playing us, by tomorrow she’ll be in Melville’s office, spilling names like prayers before the gallows.”

A Trap for the Mouse

That afternoon, Irene entered Ludwig’s workshop, where he “coincidentally” detained her in conversation.

She wore a gray-blue traveling suit, her hat slightly tilted, a pamphlet on Parisian sculpture salons in hand.

With exaggerated interest in artistic nuance, Ludwig opened a case of banknotes and handed her one.

“Observe, madame,” he said. “Do you notice the flaw?”

Irene took the note. A counterfeit—nearly perfect. Except for one detail: the serial number began with “M” —the mark of Melville’s investigation team.

Her fingers tensed imperceptibly.

A test. Immediate.

She hesitated a second too long. “Where? I see nothing.”

Ludwig’s smile was sharper than an engraver’s burin. “Of course not, Madame Adler .”

The room fell silent.

A shadow darkened the doorway; the heavy clock in the corner groaned as if displeased with where its hands pointed. Irene set the note down with the care of a fortune-teller who’d just turned a fateful card.

Ludwig leaned in. “Tell me, madame, what is a woman like you doing in a place like this?”

She arched a brow. “The same as you, Mr. Ludwig. Collecting evidence.”

Behind the curtain, a shadow shifted. A footstep rustled the rug. And in that moment, it was clear—the masks were crumbling, and the skin beneath wasn’t always human.

Chapter Twelve: The Fox Hunt

London, December 1896 – Two Days After the Revelation

A Lesson in Blood

Kurr’s office reeked of cheap tobacco and fear. Joe Carr knelt on oak floorboards stained dark from previous “lessons.”

The window stood half-open, the Thames wind carrying in the stench of tar, filth, and metal. Kurr sat behind his desk, where a half-burnt photograph lay beside a zinc-bronze candlestick. The figure in the image—a man in a top hat—was blurred, like a dream best forgotten.

“Your life hangs by a thread, Joe,” Kurr whispered as a whetstone slid along his hunting knife. “Watch her. Every move. Every shadow.”

The blade flashed. Carr gasped as sharp pain split his left cheek from cheekbone to chin. Warm blood seeped into his collar.

The knife rang as Kurr tapped its tip against the desk.

“Next time, you lose an eye,” Kurr hissed, wiping the blade on Carr’s coat. “Now go.”

Carr rose on shaking knees, his boots slipping on old, dried blood. Before leaving, he glanced back—not in farewell, but in case the last thing he saw was a blade mid-flight.

Theatre at the Savoy

Irene Adler sat in the corner of the hotel salon, acutely aware of Carr’s gaze burning into her back through the mirror. Her companion—Edward Thornhill, an actor from Drury Lane—played the role of an Austrian banker with flawless conviction.

The salon smelled of expensive perfume, brandy, and coal dust. A pianist played an Offenbach waltz as a lace-capped maid brought tobacco leaves on a silver tray.

“The printing house must be visible!” Thornhill whispered loudly enough for Carr to hear. “My Viennese associate insists on inspecting the quality.”

Carr, his wound still weeping, clenched his glass so hard it shattered. Red wine mixed with blood on his palm.

Thornhill feigned offense. “That was a very expensive vintage.” But Irene laid a trembling hand on his wrist—only pretending to shake.

The Trap Reverses

When Irene left the hotel, she let herself be herded into a dark alley. Carr seized her arm, his breath reeking of gin and panic.

The gas lamp flickered, casting sharp contrasts on their faces. Shadows of rats darted along the walls; wind carried newspaper pages like omens.

“Who is that man? Why does he care about the printing house?” he slurred.

Irene’s eyes widened in feigned shock. “Mr. Carr! You… you’re not with  them? But I trusted you!”

Carr staggered. “With who?”

“Scotland Yard! That banker is Detective Melville!” she lied, her voice trembling perfectly. “Kurr must already know you’re their informant!”

Carr’s face turned ashen. “That’s not true! I only—”

“Then you must help me.” She pressed closer. “Where is the new printing house? Tell me, and I’ll get you out of London. I have a boat waiting in Calais right now .”

Under the weight of her lie and his own fear, Carr choked out: “Warehouse Number 8… by the western docks… behind the fish market…”

Irene stepped back, lips parted as if she’d heard more than expected. Then she touched his shoulder. “You’ve saved me. I’ll contact you soon.”

Her perfume turned Carr’s stomach worse than his conscience.

A Warning in Blood

The next morning, a fishmonger found Carr’s sixteen-year-old apprentice, Tommy, in a ditch near Blackfriars. The boy had three knocked-out teeth, a right arm broken in two places and a bloody scrap of paper in his left fist: “DID YOU TALK?”

The snow around his body was stained crimson. The dockworker who found him pulled his hat low and walked on—he’d seen worse, but few things so chillingly deliberate.

When Carr saw Tommy on the stretcher, he vomited into the canal for twenty minutes. The fear he felt was sharper than Kurr’s knife.

Around him, people flowed past without stopping. London doesn’t grieve—it only remembers. And Carr knew if he lived to see nightfall, it would be because of one person: the woman who had just lied to his face.

On the other side of the Thames, in an upper room of a derelict inn, Irene held a small metal disc in her hand. She twisted it, unscrewed the lid—inside lay a miniature map of the warehouse. Thornhill leaned against the doorframe, holding his cigarette backward as was his habit.

"Got what you wanted?" he asked.

"I have. But it's going to hurt."

"More than the boy?"

Irene lifted her gaze. "Tommy wasn't the first. And he certainly won't be the last."

Chapter Thirteen: Bloody Revelation

London, December 1896 – Late Night

The Sting of Betrayal

Joe Carr pounded his fist against the wall of his cheap rented room until his knuckles split and bled. He groaned like a trapped animal.

"Warehouse Number 8..."

That was the address he'd given the French bitch. And now... Tommy. Poor, loyal Tommy, who'd brought him coffee and newspapers, lay somewhere in a workhouse with his face smashed in.

Carr staggered to his feet and plunged into the night. He had to warn Kurr.

He burst into the snow-choked street, his coat flapping like a banner of shame. Every corner seemed to accuse him—gas lamps stared like executioner's eyes, newspaper bills with bloody headlines reminded him London never slept. The street itself was a theater without an audience, only the actors of crime moving through its wings.

Hatred and Distrust

Kurr listened to Carr's stammering confession with the expression of a man chewing bile.

"So you told her."

"No! I mean... yes, but she already knew! It was a trap, Kurr!"

Ludwig, packing his precious engraving tools, turned with pure loathing.

"You idiot. You pathetic, cowardly idiot."

Kurr raised a hand. "We move the press. Now."

"Where?"

"St. Bartholomew's Church. Empty since the roof collapsed."

The warehouse erupted into feverish activity. Men hurried, whispers became orders, metal clanged against stone. Outside, the wind carried the stench of burning tar from nearby shipyards—as if London itself sensed the reckoning coming.

Haste and Mistakes

Ludwig raged as his beloved printing press was dragged down the stairs.

"Slowly, you damned fools!"  he roared, but it was useless.

No one noticed:

Oil leaking from a cracked bearing

The dark trail staining the cobbles every few yards

A single bolt left behind near the entrance

As they left, Ludwig spat on the ground.

"Damn that Adler woman."

A lone streetlamp flickered awake overhead. It saw enough—the men's grim faces, Carr's sweating brow, crates of engravings, and finally, the last tracks of the heavy cart vanishing into the fog.

The Oil Trail

Melville stood in the hollow emptiness of Warehouse 8, lantern light skimming the floor.

"He was here,"  he told his sergeant. "And not alone."

The light revealed:

Fresh gouges from heavy machinery

Scraps of specialty printing paper

Most telling—an oil trail leading to the door

Melville crouched, rubbing the fluid between his fingers. "Not ordinary oil. Smells like... lavender?"

In his pocket lay the anonymous note received an hour prior:

"Warehouse 8. Come alone. – E.D."

Who was this woman helping them? And why hide?

On the wall, a nearly invisible smudge—a fleck of purple sealing wax. Melville carefully scraped it into an envelope with his knife.

"Sergeant... we're not sleeping tonight. Compile a list of all abandoned buildings within five miles. Start with ones that once housed printing."

Behind him, the wind flipped a discarded playbill: "Performance cancelled. Irene Adler taken ill."

Chapter Fourteen: Betrayal in the Fog

London, December 1896 – Thick Winter Fog

Order to Kill

Harry Spain stood before Kurr in the back room of a Thames-side brothel, where damp walls reeked of cheap perfume and fear. Kurr didn't speak—just slid a loaded revolver and a vial of clear liquid across the table.

"Last chance, Spain,"  Kurr said. "Either Adler dies by dawn..."

Spain gripped the gun. He knew what the vial meant—poison leaving no visible trace.

"And Ludwig?"  he asked.

Kurr's smile was a blade. "He's preparing her... special farewell."

In the corner, an old hearth growled, throwing graveyard shadows on cracked plaster. A ship's bell tolled in the distance—a sound like a death sentence.

Spain hid the gun under his coat, pocketing the vial like a coffin lid. His eyes held no remorse, only the certainty that the night swallowing him had no return.

The Letter That Changes Everything

Irene Adler wrote by firelight in her friend's safehouse. Her pen flowed like a whisper:

"Dear Detective,

St. Bartholomew's Church. Midnight tonight.

Bring reinforcements—Ludwig has finished his masterpiece.

Yours, E.D."

She enclosed a scrap—a banknote proof where the Queen's profile had been replaced with Melville's face.

"Sophie,"  she told her maid, "deliver this to Scotland Yard. But you mustn't be seen."

Sophie vanished up the shadowed stairs. Irene sat listening—to the fire's crackle, the house's creaks—as if each sound might herald death. The flames leapt like truth's tongue devouring lies.

Outside, the fog thickened, the inky sky a veil over London as time bled toward midnight.

The Final Insult

In the ruins of St. Bartholomew's, Ludwig worked like a man possessed. His bloodshot eyes tracked the press stamping flawless counterfeits—with one "improvement."

Where Queen Victoria's portrait should be, glared William Melville's face.

"A memento, Detective,"  Ludwig giggled, adding delicate shading. "For when they hang you for incompetence."

He failed to notice the oil slick creeping toward the door, Carr trembling in the pews and one assistant slipping into the fog.

The church groaned in the wind like God turning in His sleep. Faint sounds lurked between rotten pews—rustling, breath, shadows shifting. Ludwig heard only his own heartbeat and the press's thunder.

In the choir loft, an old lantern swayed. Its light fell like a dying ember onto the treason taking shape below. Spain watched from the shadows, waiting.

But someone else watched him.

Behind the fire-shattered stained glass, a silhouette moved. Detective Melville was closer than anyone knew.

Chapter Fifteen: Clash in the Darkness

London, Late Night – Thick Fog Enshrouds the City

The Ambush

Irene Adler was lighting an oil lamp when she heard the click of the window latch. Her fingers instantly drifted to the derringer concealed at her wrist.

"Good evening, madame,"  came Spain's voice behind her.

She turned just in time to see his revolver aimed at her chest.

"Mr. Spain,"  she smiled, her eyes betraying nothing as her finger found the derringer's trigger. "How... unexpected."

Spain's eyes were chips of ice. "Kurr sends his regards."

Outside, the fog pressed against the glass like a silent witness. The world narrowed to a single tangible element—the threat between them, taut as a bowstring.

On the table, the remains of an unfinished letter smoldered. The wall clock struck quarter to one—London's favorite hour for murder.

Revolver Waltz

The first shot shattered the lamp—Irene rolled across the table as glass rained onto the carpet.

"It didn't have to end like this!"  Spain roared, firing again. The bullet lodged in the mirror above the hearth.

Irene answered with her derringer—a shot to Spain's shoulder.

"Damn you!"  He lunged.

They crashed to the floor. Spain's blood slicked Irene's neck as his hands closed around her throat. Her pulse hammered like a funeral bell; the world became a whirl of darkness and fury. She drove an elbow into his ribs, nails raking his face. Spain hissed but held on.

Furniture overturned. Shadow wrestled shadow. Blood spread across the carpet like a map of violence.

A porcelain jug shattered in the corner—its echo like a gunshot from another world. In the final second, Irene seized a heavy candlestick—and struck.

Blood Trail

Melville arrived at Irene's flat just in time to hear the final shot. Kicking down the door, he found:

Shattered furniture

Blood staining the carpet (hers or Spain's?)

A message scrawled in lipstick on the broken mirror:

"ST. BARTHOLOMEW – FLOOR"

Melville clenched his fists. Irene had been taken—but not without leaving breadcrumbs.

A sound—heel taps on wet courtyard cobbles. He sprinted to the back door just in time to see a silhouette vanishing into the fog, carrying something... or someone.

He ran, one thought pounding in his skull:

"Floor. Bartholomew. And if I'm late, it ends tonight."

Chapter  Sixteen: Broken Alliance

London, St. Bartholomew's Church – Deep Night

Cruel Interrogation

Irene Adler hung from chains nailed to the ruined altar, sweat and blood from a split lip painting her face. Kurr circled her, a branding iron glowing in his hand.

"How much did you tell them?"  he hissed. "Who else knows?"

Irene lifted her head, smiling through swollen eyes. "Did you know... your cologne smells like lavender... and rotting fish?"

Kurr roared, pressing the iron to her shoulder. The stench of seared flesh filled the air.

Candle flames danced on stone walls, glinting off the chains and the defiance in the eyes of a woman who refused to break. Behind the altar, wood groaned as if the church itself recoiled.

Kurr reheated the iron, his hands shaking not from fatigue but rage. Still, Irene kept silent.

The Forger's Doubt

Ludwig watched from the shadows, his fingers tracing a flawless counterfeit bearing Melville's portrait instead of the Queen's.

"Kurr,"  he stammered. "Kill her and let's go. Every minute—"

"Quiet!"  Kurr snapped. "Until I know what she's told, we stay!"

For the first time in years, Ludwig felt fear—not of the police, but of his own master. And as he looked at Irene—beautiful, unbroken even in chains—something stirred in him. Doubt? Regret?

An escape plan slipped from his pocket—intricate as clockwork. But Ludwig suddenly knew: time was ticking differently now.

Salvation's Footsteps

Melville crept through the derelict church, his men encircling the building. Moonlight through broken stained glass was his only guide.

Then he saw:

Oil stains leading to the altar

A scrap of Irene's dress on a nail

And finally—her suspended in chains, Kurr raising the iron

He drew his revolver. "Scotland Yard! Hands up!"

Kurr turned with a sneer. "Too late, Melville. Again."

An explosion rocked the church—Ludwig had ignited a barrel of powdered ink.

Flames licked the ceiling. Stained glass shattered into kaleidoscopic fragments. The blast threw Melville down as smoke swallowed the nave.

Kurr vanished like a phantom. But Irene remained—chains jammed, shoulder bleeding, eyes wide.

Through the smoke, Melville saw Ludwig hesitate—a key to her shackles in his hand.

"Help her!"  Melville's voice echoed like a call to redemption.

Chapter Seventeen: Allies in the Shadows

St. Bartholomew's Church – The Dead of Night

Field Dressing

In the sacristy, Melville bandaged Irene's burns amidst shattered chalices and dirty rags.

"Lucky it wasn't a few inches higher,"  he muttered.

Irene bared her teeth. "Luck had a name—Spain. That idiot couldn't hit me from three yards."

Melville shook his head. Only Irene could be sardonic with a bullet wound.

Above them, peeling plaster and cobwebs clung to the ceiling. A morphine ampule lay empty among overturned pews.

A raven cawed on the porch, its shadow crossing the icons as if begging for this night to end.

Plan in the Dark

Irene sat up, her eyes gleaming like a cat's in the gloom.

"Kurr will return. Too vain to accept defeat."

"And Ludwig?"

"He'll run first. Alone with his precious plates."

Melville nodded. "We need bait."

"Have it."  She produced a gold pendant. "A Russian collector—a Romanov who buys counterfeits as curiosities. Kurr will bite."

"Who plays the buyer?"

"Your best actor. The banker."

Thunder rumbled in the distance—time itself growling disapproval.

"And if Kurr spots the ruse?"  Melville asked.

Irene ran a finger along the pendant. "Then we ensure he has no time to think."

Genius's Trail

Searching the church, Melville's lantern revealed serpentine oil stains on the stone floor.

"Ludwig,"  he whispered.

The trail led to a side door where he found:

A broken press bearing

A scrap of silk paper (Ludwig's serial number notes)

A fresh bootprint pointing toward the river

Beside it lay a splinter from a packing crate—the scent of solvent lingering. Padlemen prized their tools, but Ludwig had been in a hurry. And haste breeds mistakes.

The door creaked like a cemetery gate as Melville pushed it open.

Beyond lay the docks—puddled, fog-choked, with ships moored like sleeping giants.

Role Assignment

Melville handed Irene a derringer. "You'll need this."

She shook her head. "I need to look helpless. Broken."

Understanding dawned. "While I prepare a welcome for our... business partners."

Rain began drumming on the broken stained glass—a countdown.

In the ruins, someone turned a moss-covered sundial. Its shadow pointed to five minutes to midnight.

Irene straightened her dress, reapplied lipstick from a hidden tube, and stood. She looked like a woman who'd survived more than one hell—and was ready to enter another.

Chapter Eighteen: Bait for the Fox

London Docks – December 1896, Early Morning

A Poisoned Message

Irene Adler wrote in the dim corner of a cheap boarding house, each movement sending fresh pain through her bandaged shoulder. Yet her smile was razor-sharp as she finished the note:

"Spanish Captain,

Kurr tortured me in vain—Melville knows everything.

Meet me tonight at the western docks. I have a plan to disappear with the gold.

—E.D."

She tied the note to a street pigeon's leg and released it into the fog toward Spain's brothel lodgings.

A steam wagon honked outside; a newsboy shouted headlines. Irene studied herself in a once-gilt mirror, reapplying lipstick the color of faded nobility.

"The final act begins,"  she murmured.

Paranoia vs. Greed

Kurr held the message over a candle in their makeshift warehouse hideout.

"A trap,"  he growled. "That woman would never warn us."

Spain reread the note. "What if it's true? Melville could ruin us! We need that gold!"

Kurr's jaw clenched. He tapped the map spread across a barrel. "We'll both go. But if it's a trick—"  The knife he drove into the table finished the thought.

Two carrier pigeons cooed in a cage. Spain seized one. "I'll alert Ludwig. Wherever he's hiding."

The Artist's Escape

Ludwig wrapped his engraving plates in silk with obsessive care.

"Fools,"  he muttered. "All they see is money. I create art."

Disguised as a sailor—beard shaved, hair dyed—only his fever-bright eyes betrayed him.

He didn't notice the man noting his ship's name from the alley.

Wind tugged his coat, revealing a forged manifest that could fool the Admiralty.

By the Andromeda , two dockworkers watched him. One wore Piccadilly leather shoes and a Webley up his sleeve.

Divided Loyalties

Meiklejohn bent over a Lambeth messenger boy.

"Deliver this to Kurr alone. Five shillings now, five after."

The boy vanished into the crowd.

Nearby, in a fog-choked passage, a tall man with an umbrella emerged—Druscovich.

"Seeking loyalty, Inspector?"  He held a Scotland Yard letter. "That boy was mine. Melville reads this now."

As Meiklejohn reached inside his coat, two officers stepped from behind barrels.

"Good evening, Inspector,"  said Melville, materializing from shadows. "Let's discuss your... double-bottomed envelopes."

Chapter Nineteen: The Cage Closes

London Docks – Late Evening, December 1896

Bait in the Fog

Irene Adler stood at the pier's end, a lantern trembling in her grip. Before her, "Count Orlov"—a disguised inspector from the Tsar's guard—tapped a crate.

"Twenty thousand in gold,"  the faux Russian whispered. "Thirty more upon sailing."

Their words dissolved in salt-thick fog hiding faces and intentions. Behind them, a broken crane loomed; a warehouse windmill turned with grim precision.

A scrape of steel—a knife glinted between pier planks.

Fox in the Trap

Kurr emerged like a specter, Spain pistol-ready behind him.

"Madame Duvall,"  Kurr hissed. "Or should I say... Adler?"

His pupils were needlepoints. A pistol's outline bulged beneath his coat.

Irene shuddered but held steady: "Names don't matter now. Melville knows about the church. The press. Everything."

Spain lunged. "You bitch! I should've killed you!"

"The gold!"  Kurr demanded.

"Here,"  said the "Count," lifting the crate's lid—revealing handcuffs, not bullion.

Spain froze. A second too long.

The Strike

Melville's whistle pierced the night. Scotland Yard men materialized.

Spain's shot sent Irene to her knees, but her derringer disarmed him before his second shot.

Chaos erupted as the lantern shattered, flames licking the stones.

Kurr turned to flee, but Melville tackled him. "William Kurr, you're—"

"Damn whore!"  Kurr screamed in cuffs as detectives dragged him toward a wagon beneath the crane.

The air reeked of salt and coal smoke. Among the converging agents, one carried Spain's parrot—a gift to a Limehouse girl long ago.

The Artist's Fall

At Paddington Station, Ludwig clutched his sailor's disguise and suspicious trunk.

"All well, mate?"  asked a rail clerk.

"Yes! Just my... nautical tools."

The clerk tapped the trunk. Metal clinked.

"Open it."

"NO! These are my tools! I'm an ARTIST!"

The opened trunk revealed copper plates bearing the Queen's portrait.

Among the gathered crowd, an elderly lady in East Indian plumes observed: "My word. That portrait—more soul than the real one."

Constables seized Ludwig. "Don't take them! Every curve... every line... it's not forgery! It's... homage!"

But homage wears no shackles in Her Majesty's realm. And the Southampton train departed without him.

Chapter Twenty: The Last Escape

London, December 1896 – Late Night

A Tremor of Betrayal

Meiklejohn crept through dark alleys toward the Thames, his uniform soaked with sweat despite the freezing night. Water dripped from brick walls, drumming on brass gutters. Every muddy step sounded like a nail hammered into the coffin of his conscience.

At the river's edge rocked a small fishing boat—his last hope. The sleepy current lapped at anchor chains as fog veiled the lanterns of moored vessels.

"Take me across,"  he hissed to a ragged ferryman, tossing him a money pouch.

The one-eyed old man caught it with rheumatic fingers. "Aye, sir. But 'twill be a wet passage."  As he turned toward the boat, three figures materialized from the mist—one in a top hat, another bearing a Scotland Yard lantern, and the third, implacable as stone, stepping forward.

Boots thudded on the dock planks.

"Inspector Meiklejohn,"  came Melville's voice. "A poor end for a man of your standing."

Lantern light revealed Melville's face—impassive as he reached for his silver whistle. But none was needed. Meiklejohn turned toward the water, only for strong hands to drag him back. The dagger hidden beneath his coat fell into the mud with a hollow clink.

From the Thames came a gull's cry—lonely, mocking.

The Crumbling of Morals

In a Scotland Yard holding cell, Druscovich sat trembling on a wooden bench. Water dripped from ceiling beams into a bucket once white, now gray as repentance.

"Names,"  Melville said calmly. "All of them."

His tone was detached—weary rather than stern, as if addressing not a man but a file of poor choices.

Druscovich's gaze was hollow. "No point now..."  His fingers clutched the badge ripped from his uniform. "It started with just a few pounds. Just a few..."

He closed his eyes, as if erasing the past. "Then came Kurr. Then Spain. Then it was just... sliding downhill."

Melville set down his pen. This man was already broken without coercion.

"Leave him,"  he told the guard. "Tomorrow he may talk more. Or not at all."  He departed, his coat trailing like an executioner's cloak—minus the axe.

Final Words

Kurr stood shackled on the prison steps when his eyes met Irene's.

She waited in shadow—a shawl over her shoulders, her dress long faded from lady's finery to survivor's pride.

"Adler..."  he whispered, so only she could hear. "You should've died in that church."

His eyes were empty, lips taut—as if hoping the venom would wound deeper than bullets.

Irene didn't smile. "But I didn't."

A police commotion erupted—shouts, a warning shot. When the smoke cleared, Irene was gone.

Only her violet shawl remained, coiled around abandoned shackles on the stone steps.

The jailer lifted it, fabric trembling in his grip. Melville gazed at the fog lifting over the city. In this game, no one had truly won.

Chapter Twenty-One: The Cage Shuts

Scotland Yard, January 1897

Official End

Melville's pen glided over the case report, each word measured. His breath fogged the cold office windows—January's unyielding chill. Beyond the door, clerks whispered, clocks ticked, and a constable carried an urn of old files to burn.

"On 17 December 1896, a successful raid at the docks dismantled the counterfeiting ring led by William Kurr. Apprehended were:"

The list continued—names, crimes, sentences. But Melville's mind wandered to the pier's silhouette, Irene's lantern light, her quiet defiance against Spain's rage.

He signed with two final words: "Case closed."

Yet some cases never truly close.

Last Goodbye

Back in his office, a five-pound note lay on his desk. The air smelled of wood, ink, and an incongruous hint of jasmine and sandalwood—sweet as memory.

He nearly filed it with evidence, then noticed a tiny mark near the Queen's portrait. His magnifying glass revealed:

"Thank you. E.D."

Melville smiled. Adler. Of course.

For a moment, he gazed at Whitehall's snow-dusted rooftops, half-expecting to see her—in a carriage, behind a veil, vanishing down an alley. But there was only snow and silence.

Fire Ritual

In the Scotland Yard courtyard, an iron cauldron consumed Ludwig's forgeries—the perfect, the near-perfect, even the final one bearing Melville's portrait.

Flames licked the paper, inks curling in the heat. The tower clock struck quarter to six as the fire devoured months of deception.

"Well,"  Melville said quietly. "The end."

The first snow of 1897 began falling over London, blanketing roofs, curbs, and the steps where men who'd tried to change history—or at least their fortunes—had walked away.

Epilogue: Fates of Villains

William Kurr – 14 years hard labor (died of tuberculosis in prison, 1901)

Charles Ludwig – 12 years imprisonment (drew forgeries on toilet paper until his death)

Joe Carr – 10 years hard labor (vanished in America after release)

Harry Spain – 7 years imprisonment (strangled in a prison brawl)

Corrupt Officers – Demoted, sentenced to 5 years (Druscovich hanged himself in his cell)

Final Line

And on Melville's desk forever remained that single imperfect banknote, bearing a message only he would ever see.

Table of Contents

Irene Adler - False Game

Irene Adler - False Game

Prologue: The Mysterious Trail

Part One: The Letter from a Stranger

Part Two: The Man Who Knew Too Much

Irene Enters the Game

Chapter One: The Lady with French Manners

Chapter Two: A Visit to the Notorious Club

Chapter Three: The First Test of Trust

Chapter Four: Meeting Kurr – A Game of Cat and Mouse

Chapter Five: Ludwig's Suspicions

Chapter Six: Trust Earned

Double Game

Chapter Seven: A Chess Match with Harry Spain

Chapter Eight: A Dance with the Police

Chapter Nine: Shadows Behind the Curtain

Chapter Ten: A Trap on Two Fronts

Chapter Eleven: The Crack in the Mask

Chapter Twelve: The Fox Hunt

Chapter Thirteen: Bloody Revelation

Chapter Fourteen: Betrayal in the Fog

Chapter Fifteen: Clash in the Darkness

Chapter  Sixteen: Broken Alliance

Chapter Seventeen: Allies in the Shadows

Chapter Eighteen: Bait for the Fox

Chapter Nineteen: The Cage Closes

Chapter Twenty: The Last Escape

Chapter Twenty-One: The Cage Shuts

Epilogue: Fates of Villains