‘But... but... your ladyship-’
‘Sir Harrison will send your wages to your lodgings.’
Finally, Lady Sofia had to go to Baker Street herself, where the new Nigerian housekeeper, Mrs Obassanju told her to wait whilst Mr Holmes was doing his morning meditation.
‘Any idea how long this rigmarole would take?’ she had enquired.
‘Why, ma’am, with Mr Sherlock one never knows. Sometimes five minutes, sometimes five hours.’ Holmes smiled when he heard this exchange. Feeling that he has made his point, he decides to put his visitor out of her misery. He appears with a smile on his face and invites her to sit down in a plush armchair opposite his desk.
‘I was not expecting you, dear lady. Otherwise I’d be opening the door to you myself.’ Sofia recognises that she is being rebuked and acknowledges this with a curt bow. It needs to be said, but it will only be said once: she had a much greater intelligence than her consort, but worked hard at minimising this gap at every opportunity.
‘Yes, dear lady. I understand your husband seems to have disappeared.’
‘He has. It’s a plot by those ghastly Liberals. It’s Campbell-Bannerman who’s behind this. As clear as daylight to anybody who knows what’s what.’
‘What a crass thing to say, you brainless woman. The man has just won a landslide victory, why would he waste his time kidnapping a has-been?’ Holmes did not say. He did not really think her to be brainless.
She told him about the mysterious nocturnal manifestations. She felt that it was necessary to reveal to him what she knew about her husband’s schemes to oust Balfour, which was unnecessary since Mycroft had already imparted this knowledge to the Runt. Prude that he was, Sherlock had to make a special effort not to be shocked at the lady’s revelation that she had a lover. Many society women did, but this was the first time that one of them was admitting to it with such disinvoltura. She did not, however, mention that Harmiston was aware of this and gave his tacit approval- or the perversions husband and wife indulged in. She did not need to, as again, Holmes senior had revealed to him what happened between the four walls of the Aristippus. The boy Caxton– she never thought of the insatiable young buck as anything else- was eighteen going on twelve, but Heavens, was he endowed? He also happened to be a nephew twice removed of the illustrious prime minister in-waiting. We keep it en famille, she wryly thought. Not that the young puppy was the only one. She suspected that her husband, whatever his public position on inversion might be, had a slight, if unavowed, inclination towards Urania. Her dream was to share a bed with uncle and nephew one day. She did not, however, reveal all these thoughts to the detective. After she had finished, looking away, Holmes said, I see.
However, what he saw, confirmed Mycroft’s opinion that this was a thoroughly unpleasant couple. ‘There is nothing I can do ma’am, until you receive a ransom demand,’ he said. ‘Would you then come to Baker Street with the note, when we’ll be able to decide on the next step. As you can see, we have nothing to go by at the moment.’ But the astute, if devious man, had already solved half of the case, once he heard about the nocturnal shenanigans of the past few weeks. He did not expect a ransom note, but had not ruled out a complicated outcome to this affair.
Irene Adler’s Club des As was at it again.
He trusted Irene, but only up to a point. She and her friends had some rum ideas. The moment the lady left, he found himself at the back of a hansom, making his way to Mycroft’s new lodgings in Tavistock Square. He thought that he owed it to his senior to inform him of the lady’s visit, but also hoped that he might be able to glean some fresh clues from the cued-up government trouble-shooter.
He was not surprised when the lady gave no sign in the next few days. He was, however, rightly it turned out, convinced that his old friend/ enemy Irene Adler was involved.
Few things escaped the near psychic Irene, but what she had never suspected, was that soon after she had infiltrated 221B Baker Street as Mrs Hudson, Holmes lost no time in piercing the mystery of who she was and where she dwelled. Master of disguise that he was, it was easy for him to tail her. He did this in stages, and ended up by discovering her Water Lane sanctuary. What he did then was in line with his contrary nature. Not that he thought he had one, but Mycroft had kept telling him that he loved nothing more than to prove that 2 plus 2 did not always make 4. There was no other explanation for the reason behind the task he set himself: Discover everything he could about Adler’s accomplices and her hideout.
I haven’t taken a holiday in five years, he told himself, so this was going to be it. Using a variety of disguises he haunted the area encompassing Water Lane and Tulse Hill, and in a matter of days he had mapped out the routines of the household, the habits of the postman and the laundress, the patterns of the bread, milk and coal deliveries. Naturally he had ended up by breaking in. Choosing the right time when there was nobody at home, and using his skill as a tamer of locks to gain entry, he made his way in and explored every nook and corner of the crumbling mansion. He easily identified Irene’s bedroom, and experienced a sensual feeling by lying fully clothed on her bed. I must be in love with that woman, he mused, why else would I lie on a bed when I am not in the least sleepy? He was convinced that the purpose of a romantic attachment was to benumb one’s intellectual powers. He severely chided himself for allowing ludicrous thought of love access to his conscious mind. No, he assured himself, I am too much of a realist to fall a victim to such nonsense, what I am doing is an exercise in the art of the possible. For her part, Irene never even suspected that anybody would try to contaminate the dichotomy that she had so carefully elaborated and preserved, viz: that discounting the members of the Club, whose loyalty was axiomatic, those who knew where she lived had no idea who she was, and those who knew who she was had no idea of where she lived.
Now he was going to make use of that fund of knowledge that he had so gratuitously acquired and go back to 8, Water Lane. On a Tuesday morning, the reader would have found him seated at the corner of Water Lane and Tulse Hill in the guise of a beggar, if he or she had been minded to look. In a bag made of old newspapers tied with string, he had a change of suits. A coming and going of hansom cabs, delivering a number of individuals confirmed his conjecture about Irene being at the root of the kidnapping. When he noticed that the people being conveyed to the house had blindfolds, a number of hypotheses spontaneously sprouted in his head, but he did not immediately hit on the notion of a trial. At first he surmised that there might be a confrontation with the insalubrious prime-minister-to-be, who was known to have antagonised many people. Holmes was not unaware of the pretensions for righting wrongs entertained by the woman and her deluded friends. Not that he necessarily disapproved of what they did, but he was not very sanguine about their methods. His curiosity aroused, he took the risk of entering the premises once more. Since he knew that the members of their ludicrous Club acted as if that they all had proprietorial rights over the premises, he deduced that if he started working on the garden, they would each think that it was somebody else who had hired a gardener. This turned out to be correct, judging from a short conversation between Anatole and Armande:
‘Have you noticed a strange man working in the garden?’
‘Yes, e must be finissing ze job e started last week. I sink Bartola must ave engaged ’im.’ Later Bartola casually mentioned to Hugh that Bill, who she had hired to sort the garden out must have sent a mate to finish the job.
‘I’ll go and check when I go out to have a smoke,’ said the retired thespian, but never did.
When it became clear that there was going to be a sort of sitting, Holmes went into the shed, tidied himself up, put on his clean clothes, a shabby wig, false eyebrows and whiskers, and quietly slipped inside and joined the thirty odd people in the hall. Once again, if his presence were to be noticed, it would be deemed that it was some other member who had asked him over as a witness, since many people were involved in a number of enquiries. Thus it was that from the
beginning, the man from Baker Street had been able to follow proceedings undetected.
______
The background for this trial which was about to take place needs to be mentioned: Less than a year ago, Bartola had rushed to Water Lane, overflowing with indignation. The daughter of a neighbour of hers in Thornton Heath where she bided, had met with a sorry fate. She worked as kitchen maid at Harmiston Manor, and the parliamentarian had forced himself upon her, threatening her with the sack if she was “difficult”. The sack, or the sack, so to say. Bartola, overwhelmed by her tears was unable to continue. But it turned out to be a very sad tale. The Bishop who loved bars and pubs heard about a gardener at the same place being told his services were no longer required for some trivial reason. That was how they decided to begin an enquiry into the misdeeds of the man who aspired to the highest position in the kingdom. One of their members came back with a story of a tenant farmer on his estate in Sussex getting the boot. Like everybody else, they were aware that the landslide victory of the Liberals meant the end of Balfour’s undistinguished prime ministership. Further, Algie and his friends at the Patroclus, aware of the machinations of the contemptible front bencher, knew that he was the firm favourite to become leader of the Tories, which would almost certainly see him sweep into Downing Street in four years. A prospect not a single member of the Water Lane coterie did not take a jaundiced view of, mainly in view of their conviction that his bellicose stance towards Germany would lead to an early war in which hundreds of thousands of lives would be lost.
______
The time had come to look into the behaviour of this wicked man under the microscope. The Club was unanimous in their belief that the man needed retribution, perhaps to stand trial. However, it was obvious that this was not going to happen. English courts of justice had the reputation, at least among the underprivileged classes, of specialising in passing harsh sentences for trivial demeanours of churls and hewers of wood, with the sole purpose of keeping the upper classes safe in their beds. The Club had regretfully arrived at the same conclusion. Irene Adler had suggested harassing the man as a punishment, but when it turned out that this had resulted in a butler losing his means of supporting his family, Armande suggested that if nobody else would, then it behove the Club des As to set up a court to try the man.
‘The Club?’ chorused everybody in attendance- barring Armande obviously. The choristers had looked at the Frenchwoman as if she had just been certified insane by Dr Sigmund Freud.
‘Non,’ she had protested, recognising the look in her friends’ eyes, ‘I ’ave not lost my billes I assure you.’
‘What are those bills that you haven’t lost?’ queried Bartola.
‘You know, my ...’
‘Marbles,’ suggested Algernon, and she nodded.
‘Marbeuls,’ she conceded, and went on.
‘We ’ave a large room which we can turn into a … what do you say? a paless of justice. A Court of Yuman Dicencee so to say! We ’ave able peeple in our numbers to act as avocats de la défense, or, to persecute-’
‘Prosecute,’ said the Bishop.
‘Well, you see what I min.’
‘Why not?’ had asked Irene.
On the spot they unanimously decided that they would do just that. They began by organising a big-scale investigation of the putative prime minister. Working in pairs, they were given the task of contacting potential witnesses and victims with a view to summoning them and submitting them to interrogation. They would be guaranteed anonymity and immunity to arrest or harassment by the law, and promised that they would not lose financially. Indeed, whilst guests at Water Lane, they would be feasted and lavishly taken care of. The enquiries were fruitful, and on the basis of the credible evidence of outrageous actions that they had accumulated, they found that there was a solid base for trial. There was one case of premeditated murder, however, which rested on hearsay. One man who had allegedly been forced to participate in this, would not come forward to testify, no doubt fearing retribution, although he confirmed the facts. Irene made up her mind to work upon him, although the other cases alone were of such extremely serious nature, that they would have been enough to validate the ultimate penalty.
Everybody else had agreed to be conveyed to Water Lane, and no one had any objection to being blindfolded as they understood the need of the Club to protect their location. Once in situ, every precaution was taken to prevent them identifying where they were. They were treated to a table full of choice morsels, roast chicken, lamb and beef, cheeses, beers and wines. And ice-cream, which Algernon had ordered from Boticelli & Pontalbano the Italian gelati specialists in Piccadilly. They were provided with copies of newspapers and magazines like The Strand, Reynolds’ News, and books to keep them occupied before the hearing opened. They were instructed to mingle and socialise with their fellows, but not to discuss their particular case. Irene and friends were delighted at how smoothly this operation was working. In view of the size of Armande’s house, it was easy to fit twelve bedrooms for the thirty one guests. No one minded sharing.
Harmiston asked Frunk who was taking him to his bedroom what this was all about. You are going to be judged in the morning the man said in his Swiss accent which the prisoner took to be French. He did not even ask what the charge was. It was clear that they meant to keep the room where he was going to spend the night locked, and the windows blocked. He was provided with night clothes, a chamber pot and a carafe of water. The Swiss man who had not impressed his colleagues by his sense of humour, surprised even himself when he heard these words coming out of his mouth: “Will your lordship when he wakes up in the night make sure he does not piss in the jug and drink from the pot.” To his surprise Sir Harrison smiled. He never raised his voice or objected to doing what he was told to do. He was not unintelligent, and had reasoned out that if these people, whoever they might be, had taken the risk and trouble to convey him to this place, possibly near Epping Forest, with such efficiency, then protest would be of no avail. He was not someone who did anything if he was not sure of a positive result afterwards. In the morning, he was served an adequate breakfast, after which he was led into the large salon which had been re-arranged to function like a court of law, with a large desk at one end, presumably for the judge, and smaller tables for clerks and secretaries. Along the length of the room, facing each other he counted thirty two chairs. He was grateful that they had not handcuffed him. He did not even bother to check out the possibility of escaping, understanding that there would not be much point. He was led to one of the smaller tables, which he wryly called the dock.
Seated in a comfortable chair with arm-rests, he looked around to try and recognise any of the people present. A portly fellow who reminded him of that Welsh actor he once saw playing King Lear took the seat next to him and told him that he was going to act as his defence counsel, but he had a Scottish accent. Harmiston had guessed right about him, but Irene had had the foresight to suggest to Probert to adopt a different accent to protect his identity.
Harmiston supposed that the man with the whiskers was a self-appointed judge. As he sat down in the middle of the desk, he nodded to the two men on either side of him. It was indeed none other that Miss Adler, but the accused had never heard of her. Were the people in the audience the Jury? He was to find out that they were witnesses and victims and would act as jury when the time came. What’s that chap in the blue coat doing wearing a tie? Didn’t he use to be a tenant of his? Never really had a close look at him, maybe just a passing likeness. The judge cleared his throat before speaking in measured tones.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here this morning, in this Court of Human Decency, to judge Sir Harrison Belvedere Harmiston K.C.M.G., on a number of indictments, which will be dealt with one at a time. We have here, a number of witnesses,’ he said, indicating the people seated opposite each other, ‘who have come here to testify. After the case has been heard, every single person here, including the man in the dock, will act as jury.
We seek no more than a majority verdict. Should you be found innocent,’ he addressed the accused directly, ‘on all the indictments, you will be blindfolded and conveyed to Hanover Square and released. Otherwise, sentence will be passed and executed immediately.’
Executed? Did I hear right? They won’t dare.
He had more than a faint suspicion that the “judge” might be a Uranian, for although he was making an effort to sound manly, his voice had clear feminine inflexions. He would not even put it past this collection of clowns to have disguised a woman and instal her as president of this Alice-in-Wonderland court, for some warped reason of their own. Ludicrous though this situation was, he supposed that he had better have his say at this juncture, but he was going to keep calm.
‘I don’t suppose you will be surprised to hear that I do not recognise that you have the right to judge anybody, let alone a Knight Commander of the Empire. I expect that you will find me guilty, so just tell me what the sentence will be and let’s be done with this farce.’
‘ Wy ee eez in a urry?’ whispered a voice to Traverson.
‘All in good time,’ said Judge Irene.
He was convinced that nothing he could do would derail those fanatics and make them change their minds. With the future of the country in the balance, he had little doubt that their action was tantamount to treason, an offence susceptible to the ultimate penalty. When he becomes Prime Minister he will rewrite the laws to enable him to round them all up and send them to the gallows, that fake judge, his preposterous advocates, witnesses and jury. Not that he was unaware of the difficulties that he would encounter when attempting to bring them in. They may be collectively insane, but they were clearly not stupid. They had taken the best possible precautions whilst conveying him to to this place (near Epping?), not to let him see the environment, by drugging him. He had not the faintest idea who these people were, with the possible exception of that churl. Yes, he must have been a tenant. What possessed them to target me? He had done nothing to any of them, as far as he knew. The first thing he’ll do when he gets out of here will be to deal with the ungrateful bastard to whom he had given the means of making a living. Give him the sack, and at the very least send him to jail. It would not be difficult to make a case against him. There were any number of people beholden to the politician, who would swear to anything he ordered them to. No, he remembered him now... Lower Beeding.
Sherlock Holmes Vs Irene Adler: A Duel of Wits (The Irene Adler Series Book 4) Page 2