Sherlock Holmes Vs Irene Adler: A Duel of Wits (The Irene Adler Series Book 4)

by San Cassimally

  Algernon Clarihoe was not the sort of chap who blindly walked into situations. He went into the Card Bar, ordered a large Cognac and tried to map out his campaign. He then went to Water Lane and made a very welcome proposition to his wife, Irene Adler, aka Dai Lernière. She had assumed male identity to practise the honourable profession of crime-solving, at the suggestion of Sherlock Holmes. The latter had even suggested the clever name. He was taking her for a week of relaxation in Marble Arch. They would go for walks or rides in Hyde Park, perhaps do some boating on the Serpentine, dine at the best restaurants in London, see a couple of plays, but there was a proviso: they would have to do it separately. Irene knew better than to ask for a reason for this strange arrangement. Algie explained that they were going there on a mission: to discover where Hiram J.Bleek Junior bided. They would take turns to watch his whereabouts and follow him around. If only we had a machine which would have made it possible for us to communicate with each other instantly, sighed Irene. A sort of telephone machine which one can carry about, perhaps in a specially designed handbag, or in a wallet. Clarihoe first laughed at this preposterous notion, but conceded that before the end of the century, there might well be one. I will be the first to buy it, promised Irene.

  They booked themselves into adjacent rooms on the second floor, under the names of Smith and Jones. Everyday they enquired at the Reception whether their American friend had checked in, and he did so two days later. He was given a room on the third floor, whereupon, a silver crown having changed hands, they transferred to the upper level. The time-table was easy to organise. When Algie had his breakfast in the morning, Dai would be sitting in the lounge reading a newspaper. When he went to a show in Shaftesbury Avenue, she spent her time in the Bar. At any given time, except when the Yankee had manifestly gone to bed, one or the other would be watching his every movement. Happily, as they had half hoped, Maldicott turned up late next day, and as they expected he was booked in the room next to the American. It would have been useful, but not essential to their plans if they could be caught in the middle of a conversation, which might reveal useful clues, but the investigators imagined that any business the two associates would transact might be done within the four walls of one of their rooms.

  Next morning, the hotel garden was bathed in a glorious Spring sunshine, and the two partners (in crime?) understandably went there and seated themselves besides the fountain. As luck would have it, directly opposite across the pond there was another bench. Their opposite numbers strolled there as if by accident, and ended up occupying this seat. With the thick black beard that Traverson had fashioned for him, Lord Clarihoe was unrecognisable, and would not attract any attention.

  Algie was always well-prepared for any eventuality and had naturally brought his binoculars along. Pretending to be watching flowers or birds, as there was plenty of both, he focused on the heads of the two men. The presence of the fountain was something of an obstacle to honest eavesdropping, but they managed to discover a few things, among others that the pair had a common interest in some large mansion in St Albans. They gathered that business was much better than the Yankee entrepreneur had predicted. Twenty eight girls, none older than twelve. However, what the twenty-eight girls were doing there was not clear. Since both men knew where the location was, they never mentioned the address. Curses! This meant that Lord and Lady Clarihoe would have to discover it.

  Fesserby Maldicott left after two days, but the American lingered for an extra day. It was not thought necessary to tail him. When in the morning Bleek too was seen in the Reception, paying his bill, Algie and Irene were close behind. However, by the time they had settled their own accounts the American had disappeared. They assumed that he would be on his way to Euston to catch a Birmingham-bound train and the moment they were out of the hotel gate they got inside a hansom and instructed the cabbie to make for the Station. As the train was leaving, they were unable to confirm that their quarry was on board, but when they got down at St Albans, they were relieved to see their man emerging from the front carriage. He jumped into a waiting hansom and the pair jumped into the next one.

  The bewhiskered cabbie was taken by surprise when Irene, instead of giving him instructions, asked him his name. Ernie Boliver, sir, he replied after a slight hesitation.

  ‘Follow that cab, Ernie’ Dai Lernière said. The fellow, seeming to understand without being told that discretion was of the essence, did it with what at first seemed to be great aplomb, keeping at an appropriate distance, slowing down on a straight stretch, and increasing speed to catch up later. However, when the American turned into Watling Street, Ernie was delayed by traffic and when he finally did reach the junction, the cab ahead was nowhere to be seen. There were many side-streets and alleys it could have turned into. ‘We’ve lost him,’ he said calmly. So what are you going to do, Boliver? asked Algie just as calmly. Well sir, Ernie never gives up. I’ll find him all right, just trust me. He went round the block, turned left at one point, with no seeming logic, then right again, repeated this a few times, leaving the pair inside bemused and anxious. Then with a laugh he pointed ahead. ‘I told you I’d find him.’ Hiram was just alighting from his carriage in front of a mansion at the end of Acacia Avenue, an alley off Holywell Hill. The nameplate outside the gate bore the strange appellation of Aztalan. They got down, and pretended to be walkers strolling in the sun-bathed field. They were pretty sure that their presence had gone unnoticed, or at least, had caused no concern.

  The self-styled philanthropist opened the door of the gate with his key, and disappeared into his opulent estate. Safe with the information they had gained, they directed Ernie the Cabbie to take them to Verulam Road where they had espied an attractive restaurant. They felt that they deserved a proper lunch after the exertions of the morning. As they had been delighted with Ernie’s professionalism, they invited him to join them and the poor fellow could not believe that there were people on the opposite side of the great class divide who not only wanted to know him as a person, but requested his company as a dinner guest. He said that he doubted whether the landlord would tolerate his presence in his illustrious eating place, but Clarihoe, aware of the situation told him that he would deal with it.

  When they were on the porch of the Golden Stag, the doorman lifted his nose and was not sure if he should allow Ernie in, whereupon Clarihoe approached the man and whispered into his ear. From that moment, waiters and managers bent over backwards, literally, to serve the coachman. The moment they were seated, Ernie smiled and Irene asked Algie what he had said at the door. Algie winked. ‘Don’t make any fuss, but our friend here is His Royal Highness Prince Victor Albert travelling incognito, as he often does. Like Haroun-al-Rashid, don’t you know, eh what? But treat him as you would treat any of your patrons, there’s a good chap.’ Ernie said that he had a confession to make.

  ‘Confess away, your Highness,’ said Algie.

  ‘Well, it’s like this. You know when the cab disappeared and I had lost him? Well, sirs, I did this on purpose.’

  ‘Why on earth, Ernie?’ He blushed and whispered his explanation. ‘I knew not only who we were following but also where he lived. So I thought I might earn a handsome tip if ...’

  ‘You crafty chappie,’ said Algie. ‘That shows enterprise and therefore deserves extra reward.’

  They tucked in the excellent fare that the Golden Stag had on its menu. For the purpose of the narration, this is of no interest, but the conversation was quite crucial to it. On second thought, one might just mention the excellence of the partridge cooked in port.

  ‘You said you know Hiram J. Bleek Junior,’ enquired Irene.

  ‘Oh yes sir, I have often had him as a fare in my cab. We know all about him.’ The pair rejoiced, for their mission was going to be simplified.

  ‘A right villain, is he?’ Ernie became thoughtful.

  ‘Funny you should say that. When he moved in here, people were very suspicious of him. We thought that he was up to no good. When we saw
these ragged little girls appearing, we wondered what it was all about. Then Maggie, my cousin Maggie that is, found employment at Aztalan, and amazed us all by declaring that the American gentleman had only opened an orphanage for deprived children.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She told us how these little starving waifs were transformed within a week of arriving here. They are fed meats and poultry, cleaned and clothed. Why, she said, they are made to wear colourful dresses, with ribbons and bonnets, shoes, the lot. They are taught to talk proper, and encouraged to sing. Maggie said that the sound of laughter filled the house. Obviously the yard is fenced but she said that the little girls could be seen spending whole afternoons chasing a ball and playing hopscotch.’

  ‘Very strange,’ said Algie, ‘very strange.’

  He admitted that he was disappointed, for he had been convinced that the Yankee was up to no good. Somebody who had access to the girls had said that the were a happy and spirited lot. Irene said that they should be pleased that their fears had been proved unfounded, and reminded Clarihoe that Bleek had said that he was a philanthropist. His talk of supply and demand must have been just braggadocio. Indeed, agreed Clarihoe.

  Their peace of mind when it came to the goings on at the Aztalan, was often disturbed by doubts. Strong doubts. Whether the unfortunate creatures were well treated or not, did not obviate the fact that they must have been kidnapped, for there was some evidence of that. Clarihoe took his concerns to his friend and confidant, W.T.Stead at the Pall Mall, and the latter gave instruction to his trusted Australian reporter, Arthur Patchett Martin to interview the American at Aztalan.

  Patchett Martin was received with delight by the American who expressed gratification that his good work was finally going to be aired in Mr Stead’s prestigious periodical. Martin wrote a glowing piece about the orphanage where little strays were turned into genteel young ladies, taught comportment and deportment, manners and singing, enabling them to be advantageously married, often to rich Americans. He questioned his host about the suggestion that he resorted to kidnapping. He laughed this off. No, he explained, it was true that he gave money to the mothers, but that was only because, if the truth be told, they were being deprived of their main source of income. Such as? The Australian had asked. Begging, he had responded. And? Begging … your pardon, Mr Patchett Martin, sir, use your imagination, and remember we are putting an end to this. So, he was indeed the philanthropist that he had described himself to be.

  Algie and Irene, however, did not believe that they had been on a wild goose chase, but the evidence seemed overwhelming: the man from Wisconsin did not seem to be breaking the law, and to all appearances was indeed carrying out philanthropic work. However, the rumours about strange things happening in a mansion outside London never stopped proliferating. When a girl went missing, people immediately assumed that they knew where they had been taken to. Some distraught mothers went to the Police demanding an end to this practice, but they said they needed more evidence.

  The pair would have let the matter run its course if Sherlock Holmes had not been involved. He met Irene one Thursday morning in the Tea room in Edgware Road, the Lea Gower Meet, as they did once every two or three weeks, to share a pot of Darjeeling and a plate of French patisserie. (A little divertimento here: When Eugenia Quass had just opened her little cake shop, a friend suggested the name Le Gourmet. She ordered the board from a signpost artist in Camden Town, and he brought the finished product with the strange spelling. She was very upset but a patron said, What an original name. She found that it proved very popular.) Irene immediately guessed that Holmes had a favour to ask. Typically, he did not beat about the bush and straight away started with an account of a visit he had had only the day before.

  ______

  Holmes had never had so many cases on his books, and was not keen to take on new ones, but when Mrs Obassanju opened the door to a Mrs Klight, a woman in her early thirties, he felt that the least he could do was to hear her out.

  ‘Mr Holmes,’ the lady began. Although her clothes were old and patched, she spoke in a genteel accent. Her eyes were sunken and bloodshot and judging by the loose-fitting clothes, she had lost considerable weight. An unfortunate woman who had allowed herself to sink into alcoholism and drug addiction, he thought. Perhaps prostitution? Widow of someone who made good money but had fallen on hard times, he deduced by the quality and age of her hat, a romantic era millinery bonnet which had gone out of fashion those twenty odd years, indicating a much valued inheritance from her mother or mother-in-law. It had been recently cleaned and sewn together. And embroidered gloves in black silk.

  ‘Mrs Emma Klight,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘A widow with two young daughters. I’m so worried about my two babies.’

  ‘You seem greatly distressed, dear lady. Although I can discover for myself what brought you here, it will save time if you just told me.’

  Emma Klight explained that she was widowed four years ago. Her father was a vicar but has been dead these eight years. Husband had been a clerk in an insurance company. She was left with two daughters, Martha and Bertha. Martha is eleven, and her sister would have been twelve.’

  ‘But Bertha is not dead, why do you say, would have been?’ Holmes murmured.

  ‘No, of course not. She is twelve, I should have said, I lost her, and now I want her back. My own fault.’ She told him how the younger girl was pining for her sister. She has nightmares and screams at visions of Bertha being torn by beasts.

  Emma Klight then told a very distressing story of how, unable to cope with the loss of her husband, she began by taking laudanum to sleep, increasing the dose gradually. Her husband had modest savings of twelve pounds, and she also benefited from a small pension, but in no time she found herself unable to make ends meet.

  ‘Please Mr Holmes, don’t ask me to tell you my shame.’

  ‘I won’t, but only because I shall be referring you to my esteemed colleague, Mr Dai Lernière. I’ll be surprised if the lady will be able to deliver unless she had all the facts at her disposal.’

  ‘But of course, if I must, I must. I have no right to pride.’

  ‘Then I will write out his particulars for you. I will of course inform him of your impending visit. Any questions?’

  ‘Er, yes. You said you’ll be surprised if the lady will be able-’

  ‘I did, didn’t I? A slip of the tongue. I meant if the lad... you see, he is pretty youthful, which in no way stops him from being a formidable investigator.’ Unused to dissimulation, he marvelled at his lightning quick reflex. Klight did not give the matter any further thought.

  He wrote this message to her: Mrs Klight will knock on your door at Warren Street in the next couple of days, my dear Lernière, the case is yours.

  ______

  ‘I spent the twelve pounds in an orgy of drinking, and when I came to, my poor girls were moaning and shivering in their bed rubbing their tiny little stomachs in a vain attempt to keep hunger at bay. The room had no fire and there was no food in the house. My first thought was that we should hang ourselves. I managed to drag myself out of bed.’

  She had been earning a little extra money for the family by working as a typist for the Blaxby, Blaxby & Carbing, but when she went there, she was told that as she had been away without permission, her services had been dispensed with. Irene felt such compassion for her that she had a lump in her throat. There was so much misery in this world, and so little she could do. Emma went on.

  A neighbour mentioned Mrs Jeffries, and with the thought of her two growing daughters going hungry and cold completely overwhelming her, she agreed to go with her to Church Street.

  ‘I must have been possessed by some evil spirit, Mr Lernière, for I am the daughter of a clergyman and my mother was related to aristocracy.’

  ‘Harriet Mordaunt was the daughter of a Lord of that Ilk,’ Irene said. Mrs Klight had never heard of her.

  Jeffries had been very business-like, and had greeted the dest
itute visitor with kindness. You obviously need to feed yourself and your little girls, she said, you strike me as being a good mother. She then explained that there are men ready to part with their money if you are willing to satisfy their lust. That’s the way of the world, you get nothing for nothing, dearie. For a few weeks she swallowed her pride and her sense of decency, and worked on her back, as she put it. Of course Irene had become aware of all this the moment she entered her office.

  Emma hated every moment but at least she was able to put food on the table and keep her daughters warm.

  ‘You know what I hated most, Mr Lernière?’ Irene shook her head.

  ‘These men who have been humiliating you, after they have had their pleasure, asking you if you enjoyed it.’

  Just when she was beginning to get used to her new life, because one does, specially if you numb your senses with opium and gin, tragedy struck. She became ill. Bed-ridden. As a result of the high cost of her addictions, she had next to no savings. Mrs Jeffries was kind enough to give her a loan, but that did not last a week. She craved for a fix of heroin and that cost money.

  She flew into a rage when Mrs Jeffries suggested that her little girl Bertha who had just turned eleven might be able to bring in ten pounds as she knew a “very rich and powerful” man who wanted a virgin.

  ‘But I’m telling you, Mr Lernière, I am a weak person. She plied me with drink and gave me my fix, and it seems that I agreed, although I have no recollection. Mary Watts put me in a hansom and I went home to pick up my beautiful girl. When I went back to Church Street, I saw this man with bushy eyebrows and a scar on his right cheek waiting. He gave me the ten pounds and took my girl into the room. We didn’t exchange a single word. That’s how it started. I meant to make her stop when I got better, but I never did.’