‘But what makes you arrive at this extraordinary conclusion, sir? I mean that you—’ He taps the letter which was now in front of him.
‘The note. There isn’t the slightest doubt that it was written by me. As you may know... or perhaps not... I wrote a monograph on Graphology, a subject on which I have devoted considerable time and energy studying, in which I describe how I arrived at the conclusion that no two people can have the same handwriting. You must promise me that you will read it one day.’ He passes to me my note and a sheet of his notes which he had been studying all afternoon.
‘Here, compare the formation, the shape and the size of the letters in the two…eh… identical in every respect.’ I began to see the light, but I had no memory of having consciously copied his style of writing. The ghost of Herr Professor Freud must have held my hand as I wrote out the note.
‘That’s not all. Look at the spaces between the words, look at the slope of the lines, look at the distances between the punctuation marks and the words on their side. Exact identity in every respect! No one on earth could have...’ he did not finish his sentence and shook his head most vehemently before adding emphatically. ‘Impossible!’ You could hear the exclamation mark clunk in besides the word.
What can I say? My hitherto lukewarm acceptance of Mr Freud’s theories of the subconscious immediately hardened. ‘Oh, Miss Adler, you must promise me that you will never reveal a word of this to any soul.’ I nodded vigorously, at which he opened his eyes wide, stared at me and said, ‘Ah Mrs Hudson, what are you doing here? Ah yes, I would indeed like that pot of Darjeeling, thank you kindly.’
t the risk of being tiresome and repetitive, I will (at Mr Reynold’s suggestion) briefly mention the membership: Armande was the owner of the premises and I was her only permanent lodger. Lord Clarihoe rented a room, but he did not, as a rule, stay here more than once or twice in any given week. There was the Bishop (an ex-vicar really), the thespian Hugh Probert, now forcibly retired, the Russian revolutionary aristocrat Ivan Vissarionovich Chekhonte, Artémise Traverson the unrecognised genius of a painter who was a friend of Edouard Manet, the tenor Coleridge, whose grandfather was a slave, Bartola, once a chanteuse from Montepulciano who definitely did not poison her husband, and the Swiss financial wizard Anatole Frunk. They all had their own places now but had at one time or another been a lodger here. As Armande’s place was huge, she often provided them with free accommodation in her basement when the need arose, or on a whim. She had money to roast, was how she put it.
In the beginning the Club was just a pretext for friends to gather round a few bottles of champagne and a plate of pâté de foie gras or bonbons, play games and put the world to rights. Both Clarihoe and Armande had deep pockets and were generous to a fault. If any blame is to be apportioned regarding the turn the events would take later- and I dispute the necessity for that- then I must offer my shoulder with the words mea culpa writ large on it. Having witnessed Coleville-Mountdown’s clumsy kleptomania, I had first parried and then in an unexpected contra-riposte, ended up with his laden wallet. That was a seminal moment in the history of the Club. To begin with I was invited to one of their soirées where I was fêted as a heroine and declared a natural for the As. My new friends never tired of asking me to recount the episode, and the actress in me, thriving in public applause happily obliged.
One evening a short while later, Bartola, in her meek unassertive voice, out of the blue asked what was wrong with stealing from the wicked. It all started from there, and the association was redefined. The Club had then set itself the aim of righting wrongs. We always tried to act for the have-nots. As we were all iconoclasts, the criteria for our actions were not always geared to what was generally considered legal. We never used violence (except on rare occasions), we never killed (except once) and we would only steal from the undeserving rich (and give most of our acquisitions to the poor).
We would usually assemble at Water Lane two or three evenings a week for games, gastronomic indulgences, discussions and story-telling. Wednesday night was when most people made it a point to turn up, and this was the night when we dealt with official business and asked questions: Are we in need of resources? Did any deserving creature require our help? Should we plan a heist? Was there someone who needed to have some sense knocked into them?
Although Lord Clarihoe had never hidden his homophile nature from us, he seemed to be spending more and more time at Water Lane. This was a bit unsettling for it was obvious that I was the cause of this. I adored him as a friend, but preferred an uncomplicated life.
One morning the three of us we were having breakfast when Armande went to fetch some fig jam in her cave. Algernon looked at me suddenly and said, ‘If you were a man, Irene, you and I would have been made for each other.’
‘But I might not have been a Uranian,’ I objected. He was not listening.
‘Or if I were a woman,’ he mused.
‘I have no Sapphic inclinations,’ I countered.
‘Come off it, all women do.’
‘Algernon, wouldn’t it have been much simpler if we were both heterosexual?’ He looked at me, eyes and mouth open, shook his head and in a whisper said, ‘You know I had never envisaged that.’
‘Envisaged what?’ asked Armande as she came back in. But she was not to find out. There was a loud knock at the door, and a messenger handed a note, breathlessly saying, ‘For Lord Clarihoe.’ All the blood drained from his face as he looked at it. ‘Must go, something awful has happened, Alice has been stolen.’ And in a matter of minutes he had disappeared, mumbling something which sounded like, ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’ Armande and I stared at each other.
‘Who is Alice?’ I asked, whereupon my friend and landlady told me about Clarihoe’s aunt Cordelia. She had eloped with a Catholic violinist and had been, as a result, repudiated by the family. Algernon had been forbidden all contact with the renegade aunt, but stealthily he had kept in touch with her. Emilia was her daughter who was a few years younger than him and was married to Vincent, a schoolteacher. They had been blessed by a baby Alice who was only three weeks old.
‘Who would steal a three week old baby?’ I mused aloud.
‘I ’ope,’ said Armande, ‘that... no, it can’t be... not even criminals... you’ve ’eard ’ow they steel leetle girls and make them work in those bordels... but surely not bebbies...’ Choked with tears, she was unable to express herself and left the room. I had no alternative to offer, but somehow I thought that Armande was formulating an outlandish scenario.
Many people believed that London was no longer as dangerous a city as it was only twenty years before. They talk of the laws that have been passed in the recent years for the protection of minors, stopping girls as young as eleven or twelve from being coerced into prostitution, or trafficked to France or Belgium by placeurs. I know of these laws like everybody else, but although the age of consent has been raised to sixteen, it is a common belief that the Metropolitan Police turn a blind eye to infringements. The gambling dens of Wellington Place were still doing a thriving business and the Mrs Jeffries of Chelsea were left in peace to carry out their obscene trade unhindered by the police. Although we were to become dreaded presences in casinos on the continent because of winning systems devised by the financial genius Anatole Frunk, the Club despised Wellington Place because the bulk of their clientèle consisted of the most deprived among the population, who ended up getting fleeced of their meagre earnings in the vain attempt at augmenting their resources. We did not by any means consider ourselves guardians of morality, but whilst we did not disapprove of people paying consenting adults for sex, we thought that there was no greater abomination than involving innocent children in prostitution. As we were defenders of the weak, children were on top of our list. There had been many cases of missing children that the police have been unable or unwilling to solve. The only time we had found it necessary to kill anybody was when Lord Stonehead, powerful untouchable and perverted, had been stealing Roma
ny children for sexual purposes and killing them afterwards. The reader can find copies of Reynolds News in any borough library and read for himself or herself the story of how Lord Stonehead got his just deserts (see: The Avengers). We used to rage when we heard of the helplessness of parents whose children had been stolen.
We had expected Algernon the next day. We were impatient to discover the fate of baby Alice but it was three days before he showed up. We were greatly alarmed when we saw the state he was in. He had obviously not slept a wink since we last saw him. His face was haggard and sallow and his eyes were ringed. The moment he came in he started ranting incoherently. It was obvious that little Alice was still lost.
‘Sit down and calm down mon cher Aljèrenonne, I’ll bring you some tarte and mocha,’ said Armande. The two of us sat opposite each other. Algie took out a handkerchief and began wiping his face although it was dry and pasty. I knew that no progress had been made. Armande came back with a laden tray and we served ourselves.
‘Tell me baby Alice is now safely in her mother’s arms,’ said Armande with forced gaiety. Clarihoe said nothing but shook his head violently as tears streaked down his cheeks.
Armande’s reaction was the sort of thing I’ve only seen on the stage before. She let her prized Denbigh cup drop on the floor and smash to smithereens, jumped up like a jack-in-the-box and, throwing up her hands in the air she gave a fearsome scream.
‘Now twelve-year-olds are not enough for zose... zose dégénérées! Now they nidd bebbies to satisfy zeir animul leust! Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, c’est pas possible. C’est des cochons...’
‘Maybe it’s a kidnapping for ransom,’ I suggested, not that I believed it.
‘But you ’av monnaie,’ Armande challenged Lord Clarihoe, ‘we can get monnnaie’. He shook his head wearily.
‘We’ll send Anatole to Deauville and he’ll win us a fortune, he’s been dying to test his new skim,’ suggested the Frenchwoman.
‘Tell us exactly how it happened,’ I asked.
Lord Clarihoe had rushed back to Festing Road the moment he left Water Lane and had found everybody there in a state of shock. Emilia was speechless with sadness but Aunt Cordelia was able to give him an account of the abduction.
Every afternoon when the baby wakes up from her afternoon nap and had had her feed, Tess takes her out for some fresh air on the bank of the Thames in Putney.
‘Who is Tess?’ I asked. Clarihoe blushed as he told us that he had urged the young couple to employ a nursemaid for the child.
‘And if I know anysing about anysing, it’s ce cher Aljèrnonne himself who pez her wedges out of ’is own pocket,’ chipped in Armande.
This young lady, a vicar’s daughter, Theresa, or Tess as they called her, regularly took the child out for a walk near the riverside at Putney in Leader’s Gardens. On Thursday she came back home minus the perambulator, distraught, unable to speak for the state of shock she was in. Amid sobs she told of how earlier on, she had spotted two men who seemed to be following her. One was short and dumpy and the other tall and well-built but with a hardly perceptible limp, making an incongruous pair. At first she had told herself off for being silly. Who would follow a frail, ungainly frump like herself walking a baby, but when she noticed that every time she turned a corner, the men did the same, she began to fear that something sinister was afoot. She thought the best thing would be to make for the less secluded river bank as the woods in the Gardens would make it easier for the malfeasants to carry out their mischief if that was their intention. Before she was able to reach the embankment the two men had swooped upon her from behind. The smaller one took her by the waist with one hand and put the other on her mouth to stop her screaming whilst the other grabbed her arm in a deathly grip. Suddenly she noticed that the perambulator which she had been forced to relinquish was beginning to roll away. With the thug’s hand on her mouth stopping her from breathing let alone making any sound, she was unable to scream or do anything except watch in horror as it made its descent towards the river. In alarm, the man with his hand on her mouth shouted, ‘the thsing ith ssliding towardth the river!’ He let go of her and flung himself at it, saving it from taking the plunge just in time. Then he came back, said, ‘thorry misth, I don’t like hitting a lady—’ and smote her in the face. She reeled and fell on her back, stunned, and before she realised what was happening, her two attackers had disappeared into the bushes with Alice in the pram.
The first thing that Algernon had done was to go see Assistant Commissioner Labalmondière who assured him that the Metropolitan was doing everything in its power to find the baby and promised that before sunset she would be safely returned to her parents.
He then sought the advice of Mr W.T. Stead, the editor of The Pall Mall Gazette, and a good friend. The latter had a very jaundiced view of Labalmondière and expressed doubt over his ability or intention to do anything useful. The man, he said, had become Assistant Commissioner because Sir William Harcourt—the Home Secretary— thought that a Lieutenant Colonel was well-qualified to take up that post. Why, he asked, didn’t people understand that his progression in the army was only because of his Eton and Sandhurst connections, which, in turn, he owes to his father’s exploitation of slaves in the Caribbean. ‘And the division chiefs,’ Stead added, ‘would never embark on any initiative unless they felt certain that the boss would approve.’ It was also Algernon’s friend’s belief that the Lieutenant Colonel thought that the main duty of the police was to see that no matter what they may be up to, no mud sticks on the ruling class.
‘No, I am afraid the police won’t do anything for your poor cousin, my dear Algernon.’
‘So what did he advise?’
‘Jeremiah Minahan,’ Stead said. ‘Go and see him. He is a dogged and resourceful investigator.’ And he had talked at some length about the man.
‘Or again, try Sherlock Holmes. He is an eccentric, but he is astute and one hundred percent trustworthy.’ Clarihoe, who was aware of the reputation of the latter, had then taken a cab to Baker Street where Mr Holmes received him with courteous formality. He suspected that the detective knew of, and disapproved of his homophile tendency, but he listened carefully all the same. His view was that there was one obvious cause for a kidnapping: ransom.
‘I am sorry to disappoint you, Lord Clarihoe,’ Holmes added, ‘I’d visit Putney and interview the hapless nurse and your cousins if there was any point, but I can’t see that this would help locate the stolen child. It’s like trying to locate a cricket which had lost its song in a wheat field. Well-nigh impossible.’
‘So you can’t help?’ Algernon had said hardly disguising his contempt.
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Holmes taking no offence. He had then elaborated. When the parents receive the ransom note - and he believed that they would - he wanted to see it immediately. If he was outside London Dr Watson should be contacted. He would send him a telegram and he would come back post-haste.
‘I vouchsafe that I would get both of them.’
‘Beg your pardon, Mr Holmes, there’s only one baby,’ Algernon had said rather foolishly, but the man was suffering from sleep deprivation and shock.
‘The baby and the villain.’ The detective said. Algernon had been most heartened. Indubitably that was going to be the likeliest outcome, but recalling what Armande had said he had started losing his composure.
‘We must go see Minahan,’ he told us with great determination.
Stead had said that the man was a thorn in Labalmondière’s side. He was something of a zealot, a deeply religious and fearless man. His one obsession in life was bringing to justice those evil men and women who stole children to commit immoral acts on them.
‘I am going to visit him.’
‘Oh but you must take Irene with you, two ’eads are better zan one, you know.’ Algernon looked at me blandly, then with admiration at Armande.
‘Armande, you’re right, it’s not just apple tarts you’re good at.’ Then he looked at me openin
g his eyes wide.
‘Yes sure, I’d like that. If I can assist in any way.’
‘I’ll leave now and will arrange it.’
This was to be the start of a harmonious working partnership.
‘Ebenezer the coachman is waiting outside, be ready as soon as you can,’ Algernon said as soon as he came in next morning. I went to get ready.
‘Uverdale Road,’ he instructed Ebenezer the moustachioed cocher who, for years, had been Armande’s first choice for transportation.
‘Uverdale Road Chelsea or Enfield, my lord?’ Ebenezer enquired, and Algernon pointed in a northwesterly direction indicative of Chelsea muttering number two. The coachman nodded gravely.
I have always loved travelling by hansom and as I leaned against the backrest and pressed my shoulder blades against two rounded features, a sensual feeling of well-being began rising in my body.
Algernon began filling me up on W.T. Stead and The Pall Mall Gazette. I remembered the tabloid newspaper’s impassioned campaign against the living conditions of the London poor. The Gazette had been scathing in its exposure of the exploitation of underage girls for the sexual gratification of the upper classes. Minahan’s troubles started because Labalmondière did not like it when the man had had the temerity to call Mrs Jeffries’ house a bordello for the nobility. Algernon had been very impressed by the man who steered that newspaper on its course for social justice, had sought out the fellow traveller, and they had become friends.
The house was on a new state at the western end of the Chelsea embankment, past the wharfs and King’s Road. It was a genteel area with four-storey brick buildings enclosed by black railings. When he rang the bell the tallest man I have ever come face to face with opened the door with an unsmiling face. He was nearer seven feet than six. A smiling woman was a couple of steps behind him and he introduced her to us as his wife Barbara. She turned round and left with a smile and a curtsey. Anyone would have thought that she had rushed to rescue her boiling milk in extremis. Minahan prayed that we come in and ushered us into his modest parlour.
The Memoirs of Irene Adler: The Irene Adler Trilogy Page 6