Sherlock Holmes Vs Irene Adler
Sherlock Holmes Vs Irene Adler
_______
A Duel of Wits
(7 Rounds)
Umpired
By
San Cassimally
GREEN OKAPI PRESS
EDINBURGH
Copyright © 2016 San Cassimally
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1532951779
ISBN 13: 9781532951770
Contents
Introduction
I The Man Who Wanted To Oust Balfour
II Enterprise
III Eyes
IV Norfolk Island
V Anatomy of A Jewel Robbery
VI Mr Holmes, Murderer
VII The Ghost in the Castle
Introduction
Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler both consider themselves to be deeply moral people, but whilst the Baker Street detective always acts within the rigid confines of the law, Irene is willing to bend the rules to achieve what in her estimate are justified aims. If to the woman, there is nothing wrong in stealing from people who could not account for their wealth in a hypothetical court, to the man, even stealing from the dishonest is always a crime. Not that he had not been trying to steal the compromising portrait of the King of Bohemia from her. See Dr Watson’s admirable, but flawed account in A Scandal in Bohemia.
There is a lot of history between the pair. After the afore-mentioned monarch (and Mycroft) had inveigled Holmes into trying to lure Miss Adler into his trap, and spectacularly failed, the mad Teuton was not going to give up on his plans to have her assassinated, for that was what he intended from the moment Irene had indicated that she had had enough of the vain and vacuous man, and wanted out. He had recruited Moriarty to carry out this dastardly act. As she discovered that Baker Street was seeking a new housekeeper, she assumed her mother’s maiden name of Hudson and was hired. She had calculated that Baker Street was impregnable and that she would be safe there.
Whether the astute detective discovered the truth immediately or not is a matter for conjecture. She was able to watch the master at close range, learnt much about the science of deduction, and used what she had picked to help him solve a few cases, choosing the times when he was under the influence of his white powder to provide him with clues which had escaped him. Surprisingly the magician of deduction was never aware of this. Or was he?
In parallel, she had formed the Club des As, with her trusted friends Armande, Bartola, the Bishop, Vissarionovich, Frunk, Traverson, Hugh, Algernon, and Coleridge, with the avowed aim of striking a blow for decency whenever they were moved by accounts of blatant injustice, not too mindful of the salubriousness of their own tactics. They trained themselves in a number of areas, including safe-cracking, and devised original techniques, for example lip-reading and face-identification, to help them fight crime. Much of the information in this paragraph will be repeated later, in order to make each tale stand on its own. Apologies to readers who might find this tedious after reading it for the nth time.
It did not take too long for Moriarty to discover Irene’s hideout. After kidnapping her in broad daylight, he used her to lure Holmes to the Reichenbach Falls, failed to despatch him into the void below, and instead took the plunge himself. This episode left both Holmes and Adler traumatised and neither could envisage a return to London. It is now known that they booked a passage down under to recuperate, passing for brother and sister, with the inventive names of Mr and Miss Smith.
However, in less than a year they were back in London, when he advised her to launch a career in crime-fighting, suggesting that she exercised this in the guise of a man. She opened an agency: Mr Dai Lernière, Investigator. They were usually on the same side, but as Irene and her friends also dabbled in enterprises of which her mentor did not approve, that meant that they also sometimes found themselves in opposite camps.
I
The Man Who Wanted To Oust Balfour
Sir Harrison Belvedere Harmiston of Mayfair, K.C.M.G. awoke from a deep dream of pageantry and glory and heard a slight commotion in the hall downstairs, but had been too tired, after eighteen hours at the House, to go down and investigate. It was not the first time that there had been a nocturnal manifestation. It was still dark when he got out of bed shortly after, the disquieting noise very much at the forefront of his mind. He left Lady Sofia snoring and crept out of bed noiselessly. He put on the blue Japanese kimono the ambassador had given her when the couple went to the dinner that His Excellency had given to celebrate his birthday, and tiptoed down the stairs. He breathed in the odours of the fumes which had accumulated in the night. After eight hours, most of the candles had given up the ghost, but a few were still manfully providing the stairs with their dying light, and he marvelled at their durability. The inhalations filled him with a feeling of contentment not a million miles from what the poppy fumes that he indulged in at the Aristippus induced. He did not notice anything untoward, and was about to go back to bed when he noticed that the marble statue of Apollo by the fireplace was upside down, its head in the coal bucket. He had not the faintest idea who might have done this, or why. It was most definitely not the sort of thing that happened by accident. Last time the books on the first row of the middle shelf had all been turned round with their titles facing the other way. Two weeks ago the door handle of the front porch had been sawn off. Nothing was ever stolen. Even the decapitated door knob had been carefully placed on the head of the Cupid statue at the centre of the fountain.
He had thought it more politic not to involve Scotland Yard at this stage. Clearly someone was telling him something. As he had many enemies, he chose not to waste time and energy thinking about these strange happenings, but he was going to take one action. He went back to bed with a couple of files, switched on a Swan lamp, not worried about the Sleeping Beauty by his side – she could snore through the loudest storm raging outside. Or even inside the room. Looking at her made him wonder about the common belief that only people with a clear conscience slept well.
When I get up, he told himself, I am going to call Borking and sack him. Not because he suspected that the butler would have perpetrated this wickedness, or any of the previous ones, or indeed that he would have been able to stop them, not because he understood the purport of Newton’s Third Law of Motion, but because he was a very vindictive man. His interpretation of that law being: some harm is done to me, I return it many times over, to somebody. Action followed by reaction.
Today was going to be the most significant day of his life. His mind was made up. He was going to test the waters by addressing key supporters, mainly M.P.’s and newspaper proprietors. These chaps had a lot of power and enough influence over a significant number of their fellows to cause a serious ruction in the party. Should he make the desired impression upon them - and everything pointed that he would- and should the weak-minded Balfour be routed at the polls - and everything pointed to that happening- they would force him to reconsider his position, and Harmiston could not see why the ineffective leader’s mantle would not fall on his waiting shoulders.
He made his way to Committee Room 14, where three dozen potential allies were waiting. First he would deliver his speech, then he would arrange to talk to each of them en tête à tête.
As he came into the room the reception they gave him was encouraging but not ecstatic. He was pleased that most of the people he had asked had responded. There were one or two faces that he had not expected to see, people who were not his natural allies, which meant that ther
e were many more people who saw things his way than he had calculated. Wasn’t that portly fellow in the navy-blue big coat Mycroft Holmes? Did his presence here mean that Lord Ridley had sent him to find out more about him? A secret disciple? On the other hand, might he not have some more sinister motive? Still, he had no cause to fear anybody. He was not one for dilly-dallying and went straight to the point.
‘Gentlemen, I know you’re all busy people, having to juggle your parliamentary duties with your banking, legal or commercial activities, and with the very necessary socialising that is concomitant with the life of those on whose shoulders the responsibility for running the country rests. I will go straight into the fray.’ He counted to seven in his head- that was what he believed Cicero did. ‘This- country- is- in- a- mess.’ This is not received with the roar of approval that he would have wished, but that was not unexpected. ‘Our partey … isinamess! And there is only one person on whose shoulders responsibility for this state of affairs lies.’ Sounds of Hear! Hear! Sir Harry! and derisive cries of Bob’s Nephew are heard, but they are not full-blooded, and are lacking in venom. He was not discouraged, he had hardly started. Time to go one rung higher. He reminded his audience of how the Earl got to his high position. He’s a lightweight, and without Uncle Bob’s patronage, he’d be running a provincial bank. With a hand-picked assistant doing the real job in the shadows. This caused a few chuckles. Uncle Bob was none other than Robert Cecil, Lord Salisbury, the Prime Minister who had just preceded him, Balfour’s mother’s brother. He was not alone in his view that the ineffectual nephew had inherited the prime ministership from his uncle like an impotent prince his father’s crown.
‘Everybody knows that he has not got what it takes,’ he went on, ‘so he has to show parliament that he is a man of steel.’ He counted up to seven.
‘But he has no idea how to, my friends. The fate of our great nation is in the hands of the man whose philosophy can be summed up in his credo: nothing matters very much and most things matter not at all.’ The liberty he took with the quote was definitely an improvement, he reflected. This was met with the expected guffaw. ‘This land of hope and glory matters! I say.’ That proved to be the turning point of his speech. The newly crowned monarch had suggested a song based on the passage from Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance, and it was arousing patriotic fervour in the nation everywhere in the kingdom. From the corner of an eye he saw Mycroft Holmes merrily turn to his neighbour on the right, and nod. I am winning them over, he mused, and I’ve got Ridley on side.
‘When he presented the Crimes Act to parliament,’ he continued, ‘the press barons praised his determination and show of strength. The man had the opportunity to eradicate criminality in the kingdom in one fell swoop, but I ask you this question, Did he use it? Are they any nearer to arresting The Ripper? Is it safe to walk the streets of Whitechapel at night?’ The briefest of pause. ‘Or even in broad daylight?’ He now counted up to seven again. ‘Or any- where- in- Lon- don?’ The approval was unanimous this time, and the applause shook the rafters. He felt that he had the bit between the teeth now. He went on listing the failings of Arthur Balfour, to increasing acclaim.
‘Take Portugal, Britain’s staunchest ally. Wouldn’t you say that the ultimatum to them to clear off all lands between Mozambique and Angola or else... was singularly lacking in political acumen?’ Some vociferous approval for that.
‘With Portugal on side, we could have carved more of the dark continent for ourselves, something which would have filled our sadly depleted coffers to the brim.’ At this point Beaumont de Vere-Quist the influential M.P. for Knightsbridge and Hyde Park put his hand up to ask the first question.
‘Harry, might I question the wisdom of this one point.? An important one, if I might add: Are you sanguine, sir, about our sharing potential spoils with the … eh … Portagoose?’ The assembly could not contain their hilarity at this description.
‘Oh yes, our friends the Pork-chops. Indeed. Fair point Beaumont. But I’ll tell you in confidence: You cannot achieve anything for your country if you had not made a thorough study of Signor Niccolo Machiavelli’s tomes. Dear friends, you shouldn’t be surprised to hear that I have. It is always an excellent idea to form an alliance with a weaker ally. Together you embark on an enterprise, put them in the firing line, and once you’ve achieved your aim, you can always renege. With the Mannies, we immediately become twice … almost twice … as powerful as those goddam Frog eaters. We put the fear of God in them and they leave us in peace. When the time comes, we can turn on our erstwhile allies and drive them out. Not cricket, some of you would say, but the only question to ask is: Will this do our nation any good?’ The intensity of the applause took him by surprise, and he hadn’t played his trump card yet.
‘Now let’s talk about our traditional foes the Teutons. I will ask you three questions. First: Why did we form the Triple Entente?’ The audience exchanged opinions, but no one spoke out clearly.
‘I’ll tell you: To show those Krauts our fangs, I hear you say.’ Lots of nods and mumbles of approval.
‘Second: Now that we have the French and Russians on side, should we be in awe of those Kartoffels, and their allies the Wops and the Goulash?’ A resounding, No, followed by aggressive foot stamping. The temperature was not only rising fast, but was seen and heard to be rising, and fast too.
‘So my friends, think before you answer. Should we give them breathing space and allow them to regroup, rearm and consolidate? You know what Julius Caesar said to Mark Anthony? There is a tide in the affairs of men which seized at the flood leads on to triumph. Miss it and you’re wrecked on the rocks.’
‘Wreck’d on the rocks, eh! Great phrase that, Will.’ Lord Mellowberry pronounced in his stentorian voice.
A roar of, Hear, Hear sir Harry, greeted this flawed show of erudition.
‘I am now going to ask you, When do we attack?’ The whole audience was on its feet, punching the air and shouting, Now! Let’s show the bastards what’s what! Britannia rules the waves! Enthusiastic foot-stamping combined with vociferous approval made for the sweetest music on earth. He knew now that the battle was won. He will form his personal kitchen cabinet, make promises of ministries, ambassadorships and similar guerdons and recompenses that would be in his gift once he’s safely ensconced in Number 10. In four years, he was in no hurry. And as they’re saying more and more these days, Bob’s your uncle.
The nephew’s prime ministership was indeed doomed. There was talk of his Hertfordshire constituency gently urging him to reconsider his position, and therefore every chance that pressure would be brought to bear upon him to resign by the council of Sages. The Conservative Party was in disarray, and it seemed more than likely that the Liberals would sweep to a landslide victory in December. The road should be clear then for him to put in his leadership bid. Who had a better chance than him? Surely not the inept Canadian Bonar Law? That insufferable manufacturer of screws? Or his half-brother, baby Austen? Not that vacuous puppy Winston who’s still wet behind the ears? Never. The Knight Commander of St Michael and St George was sure that he had nothing to fear from anybody. He was going to become the next but one Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and colonies, as sure as he would have that new parlour maid in his bed before the week was out. As he had promised Sofia. And in two weeks they would both have her!
It is well-known, both in fiction and in real life, that things don’t always pan out like one hopes. Early on the morning of the 5th of December, even whilst Campbell-Bannerman was closeted with Naughty Bertie at the Palace, being bestowed the right to form the next government, a hansom was waiting near the opulent Harmiston mansion in Hanover Square. The Knight Commander was aiming to go for a brisk half mile walk round the Square, as was his wont, but he had not done ten yards before he heard the strange words, ‘Ah, tovarich...’, felt something strange on his face and immediately lost consciousness. When he came to, he found himself in an unlit cellar with no more than a hesitant sheet of light sneaking
in through a half-closed blind, secured to a chair, with not the faintest memory of how he got there. He had been kidnapped.
______
Lady Sofia had spent the evening reading Smolett and raised her eyebrows when she heard the clock downstairs strike twelve. She was surprised that Harrison (“Never call me Harry, woman, d’you hear”) had not yet returned. She knew that he had a meeting scheduled with his fellow conspirators in the afternoon, but he had said that he should be home before nine. Surprised, but not alarmed. He often changed his mind and stayed away the whole night. She had a reasonable idea of how he might be spending the night, and was not too bothered. The more he indulges in his perversions elsewhere, the less he’d demand of her. He was fun and she liked him, but she found him physically repulsive and hated having him on top clumsily digging inside her. She really only enjoyed him in bed if a third party was also involved. She knew of the Aristippus, of which he was a founder member and president, which was frequented by carefully vetted intimates. He made sure none of them were political associates. More toadies than friends. As President of the Board of Trade, he had showered upon them all manners of commercial blandishments to buy their allegiance. Naughty Bertie had often been a guest at the Club, but not since his coronation.
When a second night passed and he still gave no sign of life, young Caxton Blough de John, her inamorato advised her to inform Scotland Yard. She decided on Sherlock Holmes instead.
When Holmes arrived at Hanover Square, the new butler who had replaced Borking informed him that Lady Sofia had not yet risen. Would he kindly wait in the library? No, he would not, he informed the man curtly. He had sent word to the lady that he would arrive at nine, so he considered his undertaking to her fulfilled, and left. When an hour later she did rise, on being informed that the man from Baker Street had come and gone, she told the new man to consider himself unemployed as from yesterday. To every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction. As Harrison often told her.
Sherlock Holmes Vs Irene Adler: A Duel of Wits (The Irene Adler Series Book 4) Page 1