The Adventures of Irene Adler : The Irene Adler Trilogy

by San Cassimally

  ‘Of course you know that he has a reputation as a lecher?’ I did not, and stared at him.

  ‘It is said that he is insatiable.’ I had to try hard to stop images of this elephantine man in bed, crushing a frail female to suffocation, from invading my inward eye.

  Suddenly an allotrope of the pernicious thought that I had repressed earlier sprung to the surface: He had arranged the kidnapping himself. Jasper Attwood? A penniless artist hired to do the dirty work perhaps? When his wife is released, he will claim that the policy of refusing negotiation under threat is the right way. If the abduction was genuine and the threat to kill Catherine carried out, he will put on a brave face and maintain that it was the right thing to do.

  Never give in to anarchists and kidnappers. He was counting on a tough stance winning him votes.

  It was not an easy conundrum to solve. I was being played for a sucker.

  When Attwood telephoned, I suggested a meeting. This time there was no need for any rigmarole. He asked me to meet him in Clapham Common, near the Eagle pond. I found a bench and sat down in spite of a thin drizzle. I had fortunately brought my umbrella and a light gaberdine overcoat. I immediately recognised the man who came towards me. He was modestly well-dressed. There was nothing about him that suggested criminality. He was no murderer. Nor could I see him as being in cahoots with the Cold Grave. I was convinced that he was doing this under constraint. Perhaps some criminal gang was blackmailing him. I could not entirely dismiss my hypothesis about Lord Wahlengrave hiring him though.

  ‘Good day to you, Mr Lernière,’ he said as he sat down next to me. I nodded curtly.

  ‘Something tells me that you’ve come here empty-handed.’ I could not stop myself sighing.

  ‘Did you know that Wahlengrave has mistresses?’ I asked.

  ‘Indeed I do, Catherine told me.’ Catherine?

  ‘Do you realise that Lord Wahlengrave claims that he won’t budge. He’s not giving you a penny. Kill his wife and he will spend his fortune to track you down.’

  ‘No. He aims to become Prime Minister of the country he would not dare do anything to jeopardise his chances.’

  ‘Did you read his last speech in the House? About never giving in to threats? If you kill his wife, he will claim some political benefits from this. He will cast himself as the Man of Iron whose principles cannot be bent, even when it came to his own wife’s life. The sort of man the country needs when there is a smell of gunpowder in the air. You will be playing into his hands.’ The man seemed shocked. As if they had never envisaged this.

  ‘All we wanted was a little bit of money so we could start a new life abroad.’

  ‘You mean-’

  ‘Yes. Catherine and I have been in love for ever, Mr Lernière.’ I remembered that the Lady had grown up in Warwickshire.

  ‘You mean-’ I was too shocked to continue.

  ‘Yes Mr Lernière, that brute put pressure on her old man to force her to marry him. It was always me she loved. We should have eloped when we had the opportunity. Once married to him, she had tried to be a dutiful wife, but he’s such...such a bastard...pardon my language. I hate having to talk about the woman I love like this, but on their wedding night, the...the...monster...he raped her. Obviously she was not going to refuse him his marital rights, but he preferred to jump on her, rip her clothes apart, and...and...rape her. He is sick. He should be locked up in an asylum.’ He was trembling with anger at the memory of this defilement.

  ‘All we want is two thousand pounds,’ he said, just succeeding in containing his tears. ‘I have seen a house in France, in Auvergne. We want to buy it and move there so we can live together and paint. If only you knew how gifted Catherine is. He keeps her imprisoned in Cadogan Close.

  She is wilting away. We really had no choice.’ I was in a state of shock as I took all this in. I had taken a dislike to the politician from the first time I met him, and nothing that happened afterwards did anything to make me change my mind. I did not see myself aiding and abetting a rapist. On the other hand how could I even consider helping what was essentially a criminal venture? I ended up by asking Jasper if he could take me to see Catherine.

  ‘I’ll take you there now,’ he said.

  ‘Hang on, what if I get the law on you when I find out where you live?’ He stared at me in horror, as if the idea had not occurred to him. Suddenly his face lit up. ‘No, Mr Lernière, I know that I can trust you.’ I said nothing. He smiled and said, ‘Follow me.’ We made for Elms Close, ten minutes away. It was a modest terrace house.

  ‘Not mine,’ said Attwood apologetically as he pushed open the small iron gate. ‘My friend Herbert Leighton has gone to Spain to paint Gypsies and lent it to me.’ To my surprise, Catherine Wahlengrave seemed to be in high spirits. She had a be-splattered overall on, and her tousled hair was all over her face. She had obviously been painting. There was an unfinished portrait of Jasper on the easel.

  ‘I told you she’s massively talented.’

  She was not much of a talker, but the little she said confirmed everything her lover had told me.

  ‘I don’t want his jewellery. I could have taken it all, but chose to leave it behind. I am not a thief. I am prepared to live in poverty with the man I love as long as I am able to paint. He forbade me to “waste my time”, as he called it. Jasper has set his heart on this place in France. What we did was wrong. I mean I know that, but it’s the only way to get him to pay. If he didn’t have the courts in his pocket I’d have sued for divorce and demanded a settlement. Don’t you think that he owes it to me?’ I did, but said nothing.

  I explained to her that her husband might refuse to pay the ransom. He was the sort of man who would use her killing to his political advantage, I explained. She nodded.

  ‘It’s our last hope. If we cannot carry out our plans, there’s only one thing to do. Jasper and I have agreed.’ I hoped that she was not going to quietly go back to Cadogan Close.

  ‘No,’ she assured me vehemently. ‘I will never go back. If I’m ill-advised enough to do that, he will have me certified and incarcerate me in a Home for the Mentally weak. Like Harriet Mordaunt.’ She obviously did not know the full story of that dear friend of mine.

  ‘So what’s your plan then?’

  ‘We will put an end to all this. We will go to Teddington where the river is at its deepest. We will tie stones to our legs and allow ourselves to sink.’ I jumped on hearing this.

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense Catherine,’ I said. ‘We’ll find a way. I promise.’

  ***

  I consulted with husband Algie.

  ‘Stead!’ he ejaculated.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ I said. W.T. Stead was no friend of the war-mongering Tories. The Gazette had been vigorous in its advocacy of talks as the best means to deal with conflict. It had poured scorn on the likes of Wahlengrave and Churchill who were vociferous in their demand for military action. Let’s go talk to the editor, Algie had said.

  W.T. received us with his usual warmth. He was seated at his desk which had a large number of files and books. He was in his shirt-sleeve. His glasses precariously poised on his large nose gave him an owlish look.

  ‘Ah, Miss Adler, so good to see you. I never had the opportunity to congratulate you in besting Harcourt in the affair of Algie’s grand niece. But I know you did not come here to hear my praises, fully deserved though they be.’

  He allowed me expose my problem, and he listened intently. He questioned me when he needed some clarification, and when I had finished, he nodded absently.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he said suddenly. ‘I anticipate what the other papers would print in the hypothetical eventuality of Lady Catherine being killed. I am going to pretend that this is very much in the offing and put in my retaliation first. Have a look at the Gazette on Saturday.’

  ‘Do you think there’s any need to get t
he Reynolds’ News to-’

  ‘I’ll get in touch with James Henry by the telephone machine. I know where he stands in the matter of the Cold Grave, he will be a big asset.’ James Henry was Baron Dalziel, the new owner of the Reynolds’. I loved it that W.T., like me, had used the appellation Cold Grave. Like minds. We felt reassured and left.

  The two weeklies each carried the article we were expecting, at the week-end. I will reproduce Mr Stead’s leader:

  We reported in this paper the horror we felt on learning that Lady Catherine Wahlengrave had been forcibly taken from her garden in Cadogan Close by ruthless kidnappers last week.

  Lord Wahlengrave, it is widely known, aspires to the position of Secretary of State for War in the next Tory government, should the country have the misfortune to see one after the next election. Whilst extending our full sympathy to his Lordship, we will nevertheless ask our readers just one question: Is he the man the nation wants to see holding the reins of our military strategy in case of war? We say nothing about his suitability for the exalted position we know he ultimately seeks.

  In order to answer this question, we suggest that our readers consider the following points: Is intransigence the foremost quality we seek in a man occupying this high office? Above all, is his Lordship in fact an intransigeant man? In the past he has made many a pronouncement suggesting his utter lack of flexibility. We must guard against allowing these to dictate our verdict. People in power have often to put forward views which do not necessarily reflect their true stance. In matters of the nation’s security, it is not meet to show one’s hands to a putative enemy. It is only natural that one uses subterfuge. Mr Churchill and Lord Wahlengrave are past masters at this art. So, how does the reader know whether this was in fact the case when the Opposition spokesman on War issued his many threats of annihilation to the Triple Alliance? At the moment, we have no means of knowing.

  We do, however, have an excellent pointer.

  We have learnt that the kidnapper of the unfortunate Lady Catherine has offered negotiation. Whilst we do not readily support any idea of parleying with criminals, what should our advice be when the alternative is a wanton killing of an innocent woman? In the case his Lordship allows his own wife to be executed by criminals, are we entitled to ask if the man is who we want as our Secretary of State for War? Or Prime Minister?

  Clearly Stead and Dalziel must have consulted extensively, for in essence, the views they expr1essed were identical. We were delighted when the dailies softened their tone in the matter of the kidnapping. Not even the Daily Mail continued to advocate a No Negotiation stance.

  Three days later, the same man who came to Warren Street to summon me to the House of Lords arrived at my office. Lord Wahlengrave desired to see me at four thirty that same day.

  ‘Lernière,’ he told me sternly the moment I was ushered in his presence, ‘I value my wife’s life to such an extent that I am willing to sacrifice my own principles for her safety. In this packet here, there are the two thousand pounds the villain has demanded to free Her ladyship. Give it to him. But tell him that he will not live to benefit from his ill-gotten gains. I will see to it that he be hunted down. I will then go pull the rope round his neck myself when his time comes. I’ll expect your full co-operation afterwards when I set out to find the fellow.’

  ‘Your lordship,’ I started, but the sight of his cruel eyes caused the words at the tip of my tongue to freeze. He moved his head forward in an aggressive manner. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath to regain my composure.

  ‘I have been acting as a neutral intermediary in the sad affair, and I will only continue to play a part if I have your undertaking that I am not to be used to entrap the kidnappers. I gave my word.’

  ‘Poppycock, my good man. You will do as I tell you. I never gave my word.’

  ‘You give me free hand and the result is your dear wife is freed. You tie my hands, then I refuse to act for you. You know what the consequences will be, sir.’ He grunted.

  ‘I can foresee what Mr Stead’s leader article will be,’ I began, but he did not let me finish.

  He started bellowing and spluttering, cursing Stead and his rag, shaking his fist at me alarmingly. I just shrugged. He calmed down suddenly.

  ‘All right, I give you my word,’ he said finally. He dismissed me with a wafture of the hand, but I did not move. He had a look in his eyes which got my antennae humming.

  ‘Your lordship, I have to make sure you understand my position: I have been acting as your negotiator. I have carried your messages to them, and their responses to you. I am in no way to be held responsible in case of some mishap. I am just the messenger. ’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said dismissively. The ghost of a smile on his lips told me that my mission was not going to be plain sailing. He was clearly determined to make me lead his hired men to the kidnapper, with or without my consent. He had meant it when he said that he would spare nothing to catch the kidnapper.

  ‘Your lordship, I would not advise you to have me followed, for it would lead to tragedy.’

  ‘Young man, do you take me for an idiot?’ I knew that he planned to have me tailed. I was now more determined than ever to play Cupid.

  When Jasper telephoned, I told him that he should book their passage to Auvergne immediately. I told him that I had the money, and promised that it would be safely delivered to him within twenty-four hours, and without the risk of exposing their hiding place.

  In the afternoon I paid a visit to Baker Street. Miss Obassanju received me with her usual heartiness and told me that Mr Holmes had had a busy day. First he got a message which he did not like.

  ‘Some big somebody sent for him.’ She stopped and had a jolly good laugh before she could continue. ‘Mr Sherlock, he sent the visitor away. I sent a note to his master telling him that if anybody wanted to see me, my address was 221B Baker Street, he told me. He’s not afraid of nobody, our Mr Sherlock. Then an hour later there was a knock and when I opened the door to this huge red man with a spud for a nose. He had to move sideways to come inside. Our door is too narrow. Anyway, he only stayed five minutes. Mr Sherlock left immediately after and I knew he was going to meet Mr Mycroft. I know juju,’ she said with a laugh. I was not sure if she was joking. She put me out of my misery right away.

  ‘No, I know because Mr Mycroft he dropped a kerchief last time. Mr Sherlock he axed me to wash and iron it. As he was leaving he axed me to wrap it for him. I deduced that he was going to see Mr Mycroft. Elementary, dear Mr Dai. You see, I’m learning this detective juju too. The good doctor gave me his stories to read.’ And she burst out laughing. Are we to expect The Case Book of Mrs Obassanju next?

  ‘The two brothers,’ she went on, ‘they came back with five, no, six men who sometimes visit him here. They talked for half an hour and then they all left. I saw them through the window.

  They all went in different directions.’

  I know that my readers have understood what was happening. There is no need to tell you that the Cold Grave had entrusted Sherlock Holmes with the task of discovering where I was delivering the ransom, and he had enlisted the help of Mycroft who loved a little bit of melodrama. The other men Mrs Obassanju talked about were the fellows the detective sometimes calls upon when he needs a posse of spies or assistants.

  It is so exhilarating to be involved in a game of wits with a past master of strategy and guile. I expected that his lordship would have me followed. The politician would naturally want the best man for the job. To him, the police were not competent. Who would he hire but Holmes? I will now reveal that my visit to Baker Street was indeed for the purpose of verifying my hypothesis, which dear Mrs Obassanju duly confirmed. Although we had not talked much about the case, I knew where he stood in matters such as the one in question. Holmes is a gentleman of the utmost integrity, but he has too much faith in established traditions. Someone who breaks the law needs to be deal
t with accordingly. The few times I have heard him hum, it was the ditty from The Mikado:

  Jail really cuts you down to size

  Let the punishment fit the crime

  Let the punishment fit the crime

  I am not implying that he lacks compassion, but there wasn’t enough time left to make him come round to my point of view. He was present when Mycroft launched his tirade against the war monger, but would that be enough to make him aid and abet a transgression? I did not want to take the chance.

  I knew that Holmes was going to set a trap for me. I hated to see Catherine and Jasper’s plan confounded. My mentor had enlisted enough people to carry out his plan. I was going to take a leaf from his own book. When commissioned by the proprietors of Royal Mersey Bank to make their building theft-proof, he had come up with the brilliant idea of confusing any putative bank robber by using decoys to lock up the bank at the end of the working day. This was something which would confuse any potential villain from finding the key of the premises when it could be in the possession of any one of six bank clerks (see The Anatomy of a Bank Robbery in The Memoirs of Irene Adler).

  I had spoken to Jasper on the telephone machine to inform him that the money was being delivered at Elms Close at half past eleven. Unfortunately Mr Holmes happened to know that I lived in Water Lane, Brixton. Like Chess players anticipate their opponents’ moves, he and I understood each other. I had prepared seven packets to look like the parcel that the Cold Grave had given me, which contained the two thousand pounds. I entrusted one of each to Artémise, Bartola, Vissarionovich, the Bishop, Armande and Anatole, with instruction to draw attention to it. I took one for myself. When we emerged into Brixton Hill, I immediately recognised the men Holmes had chosen to follow us. The Holmes brothers, the only ones known to us, had disguised themselves. Sherlock had chosen to wear the soiled clothing of a railwayman. He must have had some mischief in mind when he chose to transform the well-upholstered Mycroft into a fishwife.