The Adventures of Irene Adler : The Irene Adler Trilogy

by San Cassimally

  Sarah pines for him. I know she told him never to darken her doorstep as long as Dreyfus was not free. He kept roistering in the company of his tormentors, the vilest anti-semites in France. Non, Monsieur proudly declares that he hates Jews. No, don’t make me, Miss Adler. I can’t go on.’ He started shaking, but I realised that he was trying to repress his sobs. He started flailing his arms uncontrollably and blinking furiously. He was now blubbering incoherently. I believed that he was trying hard not to tell me something. I said nothing, knowing that he would calm down after a while. When he did, he looked away.

  ‘He came to La Pointe des Poulains, the ingrate. When her mother was partying with her friends. Foolish me, I thought it was to beg her forgiveness. She would have given an eye for the privilege of hearing him say he was sorry. Or a leg. But no, he had another agenda. He sneaked in whilst the ladies were upstairs in the Fortin. He took care not to be seen, but I saw him alright. He came out with the skull in his hand. I challenged him and he laughed. Go tell her, I don’t care. If she gives me fifty thousand francs I’ll return it to her. And he left, laughing.’

  ‘So, why didn’t you tell her?’ He stared at me as if I had threatened to flap my arms and start flying.

  ‘And break her heart? No, I’ve sworn to myself that I must never reveal this act of infamy to her. And if you-’

  ‘I know, you will swim the channel and...’

  ***

  ‘Well my dear Sarah,’ I told her after everybody had left, ‘I accept defeat. Don’t believe Dr Watson, even Sherlock Holmes does not have a 100% record.’

  The Wiles of the Wicked

  I knew the man was blind even before I opened the door for him. I had heard the sound of the trailing cane, but that alone would not have been enough. The rapping at the door was hesitant and had an unusual rhythm. Most visitors knock from four to five times, usually at equal intervals. They pause for a few seconds and tap again in the same manner. This time the first rap was faint, the next two much sharper, but the fourth and the fifth were normal. After the pause, the striking occurred like most second waves, five equally spaced knocks all of the same intensity. I surmised that standing at the door, my visitor could not appraise the distance between it and himself accurately. Not wishing to cause panic, the first attempt was tentative. Having a clearer, but not altogether perfect idea of the distance, still unsure, he followed this by two more. Then finally, having sized up the situation, the second volley was in the manner of the average caller, confirming my hypothesis.

  He held a white cane in his left hand and wore exotic Chinese glasses. The lenses were smoke-coloured quartz of the type worn by Chinese dignitaries to prevent their interlocutors from seeing the expression in their eyes. Only very rich people could afford them. My visitor was also sporting a jacket of a material that I recognised as Vicuna Dormeuil. It was smoky grey with a blue tinge. Only a Savile Row specialist could have made him such a perfect attire. I invited him in and guided him to a seat opposite my desk.

  ‘My name is Willard Heaton, and I am blind.’

  ‘Dai Lernière at your service.’

  ‘Mr Holmes said you were a man,’ he said. It takes a blind man to see things.

  ‘No, sir. I don’t know what made you say that. I am indeed Mr Lernière.’ Following Mr Holmes’ advice, I was operating my agency as a man.

  ‘I do beg your pardon. I meant no offence.’

  ‘None taken. But pray tell me what I can do for you.’

  ‘As you see, I am blind.’ I must have been a little bit annoyed with him, to judge by my uncharacteristic response, which might have been a weak attempt at banter, rather than a reflection of my discomfiture at having my gender identified.

  ‘Well I am an investigator, not an ophthalmologist.’ I immediately chided myself for my lack of sensitivity, but Willard Heaton laughed.

  ‘Topping! Ebsolutely topping! I love dealing with people with a sense of humour.’ I had sometimes been told that I had none.

  ‘Most people bend over backwards to avoid giving offence. Now, I find that patronising.’ I smiled and nodded. Naturally he would have been unaware of that.

  ‘The reason I’ve come to you is that Mr Holmes, to whom I had been recommended, informs me that he has never been more occupied, with no less than three cases. He was kind enough to tell me that you are at least his equal when it comes to solving conundrums.’ After the shortest of pause, he added, ‘It is conundrums, and not conundra?’ I had no idea. I noticed that he could not keep his head from wobbling very slightly right and left. He must have become aware of this, for he raised his right hand and placed his thumb under his chin, to keep it still, I presumed.

  ‘Mr Holmes is too kind.’

  ‘You mean it’s not true?’ asked Willard, in a teasing tone, which I found endearing. I began warming up to him.

  ‘I witnessed a terrible murder, and I want you to look into it.’

  ‘My dear sir, isn’t that what our admirable Police force are for?’ He explained that his first call had indeed been at the D: division of the Metropolitan Police force in Marylebone. Although they received him with courtesy, and listened to him, he had the feeling that as he was sightless, his testimony carried no weight. They did, however, make notes and said that they would spare no effort looking into the matter.

  ‘But I heard one officer, making no attempt to lower his voice, say to a colleague that the testimony of a blind man had less weight than the paper a verbal statement is written on. As you know, people often judge someone with any handicap to be a half-wit. Since I was blind, I was also probably deaf.’ I had noticed that.

  ‘Mr Heaton, you’ve done your civic duty. Why are you willing to spend your hard-earned money – I have been told that my services are quite costly – to discover the truth about something, which manifestly is of no direct concern to you.’ Heaton laughed. I was perplexed to see him pick his nose. Here was a man, elegant in dress and manners, speaking with an Oxford accent, doing in public what I had never seen an adult indulge in without pretending to be doing something else. It took me a little while to hypothesise that as a result of their not seeing what they are doing, the unsighted forget their inhibitions, ending up believing that if they can’t see something, then neither can others. This was something that needed investigation. Would Holmes have an answer?

  ‘First of all, Mr Lernière, I do not earn anything. The generous income left by my dear deceased pater which I am unable to spend a quarter of, however assiduously I try, cannot be called hard-earned. The old man unwittingly pushed me into this life of idleness. Now, for the last three weeks- since the murder occurred- I have found it hard to sleep. The events I witnessed- I heard - keep churning and swirling in my head. I, who used to enjoy the sleep of the just, am now a victim of insomnia. I fear that unless I pierce the mystery of that killing, like Macbeth, I would have murdered Sleep itself.’ They say blindness sharpens other faculties. Was his eloquence a new-found gift? I wondered. I hazard a guess that the part of the brain whose function was to interpret visual impulses, having been freed of this task, is now being put to other uses.

  ‘In that case, sir, I am happy to take the case. As usual, I will only charge a fee if I resolve the issue to your satisfaction.’

  ‘Mr Holmes assured me that you have a 100% record.’

  ‘Only so far.’

  ‘I am sanguine about a successful outcome. Can I give you an advance of fifty pounds?’ It was a quite extravagant offer, but I saw no impediment to accepting it. I gladly took the notes and committed them into the drawer of my desk. Heaton then gave me a detailed account of the incident and I made notes.

  ***

  He was not born blind. After finishing his medical studies at Oxford, as he had no need to work to make a living, he followed his father’s advice and went travelling. With his friend Dickie Doyle who was a roving correspondent of The Times. As he had inherited
a large apartment in Essex Street, Dickie stayed with him whenever he was in the country. They happened to be in Florence when misfortune struck. It was after breakfast and they were sitting opposite each other in their hotel room, in readiness for a visit to the Duomo.

  ‘Switch the light on please, Dickie, it’s gone so dark,’ Willard had said, but the truth dawned upon him at same time. He had just lost his sight. There had never been any signs of this impending disaster. One moment he was fully sighted, and the next someone had switched his light off. In the confusion of this discovery, a telegram arrived. It was from Fleet Street. Doyle was required to go to Afghanistan as soon as possible. Willard received this as a shock. He would be away for two or three months. They set off for England immediately, without even seeing a local doctor. He did not trust foreign professionals anyway.

  Without going into details, the English specialist he consulted said that in cases of sclerotitis, a severe inflammation of the sclerotic, there was no known cure. Dickie said he was not going to leave, but his blind friend convinced him that he would be safe in the hands of their housekeeper Mrs Parker. Indeed the widow was devoted to him. With her help, he learned to find his bearing in the flat. He was amazed at how quickly he became proficient at navigating round the furniture without knocking against them. The trick was to walk at a uniform speed. At the approach of an obstacle, you felt its presence somehow. It was uncanny. He could not describe it. He imagined that the slight compression of the air around him could be picked by some extra-sensitive mechanism inside his body of which he had no understanding. If you hesitated or stopped, then this ability weakened. He had no explanation for this. He noticed that he could sense walls when he was about five feet away. With the encouragement of Mrs Parker he went up and down the stairs. He found that fairly easy, by counting his steps, although occasionally he was distracted and lost count.

  He had been fortunate to escape a bad fall so far. Every time he went up or down the three flights successfully, he felt exhilarated.

  The doctor taught him how to use a cane. Dear Mrs Parker knew very well that the ultimate aim was to venture into the streets, but she kept saying that he was not yet ready for this.

  Finally the day came when she allowed him to walk down Essex Street by himself. From the front door, he had to go down nine steps to reach the front garden which was on street level. Once he was there, he brushed against fronds of bushes. The gate itself was of wrought iron, and made a screeching wail every time it was opened. It consisted of two symmetrical components, revolving on hinges fixed to stone frames, closing in the middle, each fitted with an ornate scroll top.

  ‘I didn’t remember ever looking at them when I was sighted,’ he admitted. ‘I now derived much pleasure stroking their smooth curvature.’

  The gate was no taller than an eight year old. The latch had a slightly flattened brass knob the size of a marble. With the help of the stick he had counted how many bars there were to the railings on either side of the door. Eleven on the right and fourteen on the left. On the way back, he had to raise his hand to the level of his shoulders to insert the key in the lock.

  ‘You might think that all the information I am giving you is irrelevant, Mr Lernière, but I believe that it might shed some light on what was about to happen. Please bear with me.’ I assured him that in a case like his, the tiniest details often proved crucial.

  The first time Mrs Parker let him go out on his own, he gingerly pushed open the gate and turned left. He began by placing his stick on the first bar and let it trail as he walked. He counted fourteen and knew that he had left the orbit of the house. After three hundred and twenty two steps, he was convinced that he was at the end of the pavement. Must be Little Essex Street, he had guessed. He would have preferred the housekeeper not to shadow him like a mother hen.

  Finally he had to beg her to stop her loud encouragement.

  ‘Little Essex Street, Mr Willard,’ said Mrs Parker. Although he had agreed that the first time he would venture no further, to the good woman’s alarm, he decided to cross over to the other side.

  He kept going for a while.

  ‘Are we at the junction of Mitford Lane, Mrs P?’ he asked. The lady said yes, but urged him to turn back. He merrily said no, he had no intention of stopping yet. He heard a hansom approaching and waited until it had passed. There was no sound of traffic, but he asked his guide if it was safe to cross. Grudgingly she said yes. He turned into Mitford Lane and walked round it until it rejoined Essex Street. He then turned right into it. He counted his steps until he thought he had reached his house. He was disappointed when his stick did not encounter the first of the eleven bars he was expecting. He approached his bare hand and felt the rough wall of the neighbour’s house.

  The first bar was two whole yards away. That was how he learnt that details like how fast one was walking, or how regular one’s steps were could change perceptions. Admittedly trivial ones, but often they mattered.

  ‘In less than two weeks I was going out on my own. I found people very helpful. No one I approached ever showed the slightest impatience with me. Many would go out of their way to walk me to the other side of the pavement, when there was really no need. That was something which annoyed me and touched me in equal measures. Although I hated being sightless, I was beginning to think that there were but few disadvantages. I was able to verify what I had learnt at medical school: that the other senses of the blind develop to a surprising level. I was becoming more aware of scents. I often smelt a hansom cab approaching before I heard the clip clop. I mean I smelled the horse. Oh, and the lubricating fat of the axles. Can you believe that?’ I could.

  ‘I can go on and on about my experiences, but I will let you extrapolate and draw your own conclusions.’

  ‘Yes, do tell me about the events leading to the murder.’

  ‘Righto. I loved walking to the Berkeley Square Gardens. Once or twice a week, I would set out shortly after breakfast and wend my way there. If it was not too cold or raining, I would sit on a bench for an hour, imagining the idyllic green landscape, breathing the clean air, before walking back to Essex Street. On that fateful Thursday, when I had got to Charing Cross, I thought I’d make my way into Trafalgar Square for a change. There was a crowd milling about aimlessly, chattering and laughing happily. I could sense the gaiety of the people around me and exulted in it, but suddenly a peal of thunder and a cloudburst tore through this merriment, catching people unawares.

  Everybody started darting about in all directions in search of shelter. It was in this chaos that someone brushed past me, causing me to drop my cane. That was what did it, Mr Lernière. The effect of the panic at losing my one major lifeline made me lose my cool. Let me explain: To the unseeing, listening to rainfall is comparable to going to a concert. Watching an orchestra, you know where the various sounds are coming from. You expect the violin sounds from your left, the cellos to respond to them from your right. The contributions of the woodwind floats in from behind the violins, with the brass instruments having their say beside them. In the same manner, the eyeless have the ability to pick up the various components of the music of rainfall. When I was sighted, I identified it as what I call a monolithic acoustic manifestation. All the diverse sounds produced, by the impact on the streets, the ground, the walls of a house were drowned in the major contributor, usually the reverberation of the outpour on the rooftop. Now, I can hear the many parts as they blend together harmoniously like the various strands do, under the baton of the maestro. I can distinguish the click-clack of the rain hitting the walls at an angle, the pitter-patter of the drops as they joyfully dance on the leaves of trees. The plopping splashes as the precipitation joyfully greets its own kind in pools and puddles are very distinct. We pick on the clamour produced when the torrents pour into a canal. The impact of the waters on the asphalt of the road or earth is a sort of drumming. The melody of the rain is something we discern like the musicologist
the nuances of the symphony. This is how we locate ourselves. Wall to the right, pool straight ahead, road on the left.’ I found this fascinating.

  ‘The euphony of rainfall loses all its consonance when external sounds meddle,’ Willard pursued. ‘Nothing is more disconcerting and confusing to us than a cacophony. The same as when I hesitate or change my speed. I begin to lose my self-confidence and bump into things. Now, people running like frightened rabbits to avoid getting wet and voicing their annoyance, change the data considerably. I had completely lost my bearing. And I began to flounder. Like the non-swimmer who realises that his feet are no longer touching the bottom. I went down on my knees to try and find my dropped cane and to my shock I was unable to do so. I made some futile attempts at asking for help. Nobody paid any attention to me as it was everyone for himself. My stick remained ungrasped. Without it I was as lost as the babes in the wood with no nightingales in sight to cover my body with leaves after I died. Instead of staying put in one place and getting wet, I chose to grope about aimlessly and no doubt getting further and further away from my single most important possession under the circumstances. I kept going. The rain showed no signs of abating, and I kept walking. Blind people find it difficult to assess time. Had I walked for half an hour? I had no idea.

  Could have been more than two. To judge by how much my legs were aching, it could even have been three or four. I do not know why, the moment the rain had stopped, I did not think of asking someone to hail a cab for me. It would have been easy enough to get back to Essex Street, but I had the illogical conviction that all of a sudden I would sense where I was and would manage to get home on my own steam. It must be that I rather liked the idea of a challenge. The truth was that I had lost all my bearings, but I refused to accept this. I told myself that I was going to use my hands to grope my way back. Finally, I swallowed my pride, and was about to give up and ask for a hansom, when I suddenly felt that I was not far from Essex Street. I changed my mind. The rain had only been taking a breather, for it was once more pelting down with no intention of stopping.’ I indicated to him that I was hanging on to every word of his.