The Memoirs of Irene Adler: The Irene Adler Trilogy

by San Cassimally

  In the meantime, Minahan had not been idle. He had interviewed a number of Hammond’s mignons and initially he had found them reluctant to talk to him, but he implied that he still had the full power of the Force behind him, and this helped loosen some tongues. He was thus able to confirm that the three nobles already identified were regulars at the Bath, and that recently they were joined by a new personage, presumably the fellow we had named B. Typically, Minahan spent hours staking the Bath and we were not surprised that he ended up catching sight of the fellow. However, we could hardly believe our ears when he turned out to be none other than the infamous Professor Moriarty.

  We were aware of the reputation of the man as a Napoleon of crime. Indeed the Pall Mall Gazette, Lloyd’s Weekly and Reynolds’ News regularly associated his name with many of the most outrageous crimes perpetrated in the city. The police had often questioned him in the past and he always succeeded in making fools of them. Nobody believed in his alibis, but they appeared watertight. Minahan reminded us that Mr Holmes had sworn to devote all his spare time and energy to bringing him to book. Moriarty, as we knew, delighted in playing games, sending memos to the police and to the press, purportedly admitting his guilt, giving justifications, signing his name, but when brought in he would put on his most innocent expression, shake his head and claim that the notes were slanderous forgeries concocted by his many enemies in the academic world who were out to ruin his reputation and destroy his career out of jealousy. So release me or indict me, he challenged. Minahan, however, had not the slightest doubt of his involvement in most of these outrages, even if proof he had none. Something he shared with the man from Baker Street.

  The Irishman had arrived at the conclusion that Fred Edshott had been despatched to the land beyond by no less than Colonel Sebastian Moran, now operating as Professor Moriarty’s right hand man and hired killer. Whilst the professor’s villainies were executed with cold calculation, the military man acted with reckless abandon. Whilst the professor never indulged in villainies for their own sakes, Moran exulted in wanton killings and mutilations. Minahan regretted that he had no proof of anything, but claimed that his instinct as a policeman of thirty years could be depended upon. He produced a report on Sherlock Holmes’ nemesis for us:

  Professor James Moriarty. No one knows his exact age, but is thought to be in his mid-forties. He has a chair of Mathematics at University College London, and has earned a reputation for the clarity of his lectures, the originality of his ideas, his greed and his ruthless ambition. His students are in awe of him. He is generally believed to be cold and humourless, but he is said to support charities and orphanages. There are documented accounts of his many criminal activities, but although the police have often looked into them, no solid proof of his involvement has been discovered. His great speciality is providing watertight alibis which although the police knows to be fabricated, they have no legal means to dispute. He is known to have many associates in the world of crime, the most dangerous, a retired military hero who had gone to the bad, Colonel Sebastian Moran. He maintains blandly that he breaks no law by his associations. Though not known for his sense of humour, he has been quoted as saying that his many friends in the police spend much more time with villains than he does and no one thinks the worse for them. The belief is that he wants the world to know who he really is, but uses a number of strategies to deny proof to investigators. He planned the blowing up of a Refuge for the Handicapped in Switzerland because he thought that spending resources on people who had no contribution to make was a waste. He was involved in the theft of the diamond necklace of Hortense de Courvoison, the mistress of the banker Sir George Mallaport. Even when the police have reasonable evidence, as they did in this case, they do not act upon it. The reason for their inaction is to be speculated upon. He almost certainly arranged for the murder of General Corbilliards, and at least three others. He never participates in these crimes himself but plans them with military precision in a manner such that if the actual perpetrator is caught, he is provided with all legal assistance and his own name is never mentioned. Which is why he is able to lead an open life in London, although no one knows for sure where he lives. He is suspected to have a number of abodes. He is known to be a teetotaller, he does not gamble and is unostentatious, often having his lunches in modest cafés in the university area. His one failing, (if that’s what it is) is his interest in art. He has bought a number of valuable paintings and sculptures, and during one of his interviews with the police has explained that he had inherited a small sum of money from a moderately rich aunt, bought a picture by a then unknown pre-Raphaelite and sold it a year later for five hundred pounds, which launched him in the business of buying and selling art, although he admitted that he has not had to sell anything in many years.

  My attention had been drawn to his interest in orphanages and charities involving children. He explained this by suggesting in very oblique terms that he had had a deprived childhood and wanted to help the underprivileged. However it turned out that his interest had an altogether more sinister purport. He was known not to like women, was even thought to be an ascetic, but I have established that he used to visit the Cleveland Street establishment, disguised as a whisky buyer for some London stores, and usually availed himself of the services of the youngest of Hammond’s mignons, often urchins not yet twelve. He seems to have stopped his association with Hammond’s den three years ago. My investigations led me to discover that he often organised riverboat trips and picnics for young boys and girls from the orphanages to which he made generous donations. What happened then was outrageous and criminal. I have heard from a third party that he likes to single out one little girl or boy and take the child for a walk in the woods. I have passed the information to Inspector Abberline, one of my rare allies in the force, and he says that without evidence his hands are tied. As the Metropolitan Police force is undermanned, he is not able to find the men to carry out the surveillance that would deliver proof positive.

  We now had most of the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle, and after putting them together, a coherent picture had emerged, but there were still pieces missing. A visit to the Turkish bath by Algie and Count Klapisberg was therefore called for, in the hope of learning the precise nature and the timing of the planned action. We were again lucky to get Bath Saloon No. 2. We could not have hoped for a better dramatis personae to our show, for there, large as life was the man we now identified as the dreadful Professor James Moriarty, with Prince Victor Albert, Lord Somerset and the Earl of Euston. Somerset had his back to me so I could not benefit from what he had to say, but the professor obligingly placed himself in my line of vision. From his response, which I was able to decode much more easily (perhaps last time I had lacked practice?) I picked the following information: Moriarty was demanding two hundred guineas for the job, and the prince confirmed that he was going to provide this sum. Somerset said something I was unable to catch. I saw Moriarty nod and clearly say, ‘In that case, you can count on me, I’ll be here without fail next Wednesday, same time same place, eh what?’ We needed no more. We were now in possession of the best linen money could buy, of Sheffield quality needles and the best thread. Most significantly, we happened to be the most accomplished modistes in the land, and were now ready to stitch the final curtain on a dastardly act. With this new intelligence, we had to choose a course of action. After a copious dinner cooked by Armande and the multi-talented Coleridge (who was now working as a chef in Chelsea) we sat down to discuss strategy. Algie summed up the facts we had collected. Here is the gist of the arguments put forward by the members of the Club: Bartola suggested that as Sherlock Holmes considered Moriarty his Number One Enemy, he would indubitably be keen to do something concrete. We should enlist his assistance. Coleridge demurred. If the man from Baker Street was so obsessed with Moriarty, might he not refuse to see the bigger picture? I had to agree with my former lover. The Bishop agreed and proposed that we sent word to Lloyd George to warn him of the plot, but Vissario
novitch said that he knew those “big men of destiny”. They think they are immortal. They believe that there is no danger they cannot overcome, ‘Trust me, the man will simply laugh it off,’ he said. Probert agreed and quoted Shakespeare:

  We are two lions littered in one day

  And I the elder and more terrible.

  And Caesar shall go forth.

  Artémise proposed that we should get the police to raid the bordello, but I said that I did not trust Labalmondière. The Bishop nodded, he too had reservations about the efficiency and integrity of the force. Bartola agreed and claimed that a botched action would see the perpetrators getting away scot-free with nothing to stop them planning another coup. Algie said that the Secret Service was much more dependable, and Armande asked if there was a possibility of a combined action. We ended up by asking Minahan to arrange for us to see Inspector Abberline who was his only ally in the force, and put our case to him. The meeting was arranged for the following day. Need I mention that it was to take place at the Café Royal? To Algie, that was home from home.

  We collected Minahan by hansom in Uverdale Rd and from there went straight to Regent Street. We were seated under a faux palm tree when Theophile came in to announce Chief Inspector Abberline. After the initial polite exchanges, with tea and patisserie ordered served and consumed, we settled down to business. The Inspector was horrified when we raised the possibility of raiding the bordello whilst royalty was indulging in whatever they indulged in. No sir, he had a wife and family to support and was not going to do anything to compromise their welfare. Would he contemplate a joint action with the Secret Service? They were used to rescuing children of royalty and the insanely rich, they had the know-how. Yes, but it would still be risky for him to do something behind Labalmondière’s back. He demurred but did not rule it out. He would have to watch his back, he did not wish to be the victim of an accident. Moriarty had long arms. Yes, everybody knew what was happening at the Turkish Bath and many other dens of iniquity, Mrs Jeffries’ many houses of tolerance. Even if it was common knowledge that the nobility and even foreign royalty committed outrageous acts on innocent children in those venues, Labalmondière had specifically directed that the force to kept its nose out of their businesses. He knew that a carefully planned raid was called for, but pension considerations outweighed conscience. He was no Minahan, he said, nodding to the latter. Give him twenty-four hours to think it over.

  Thinking about it that night, when sleep would simply not deign to visit me, I realised how naive we had been in thinking that poor Abberline would feel able to raid Cleveland Street. Suddenly from nowhere a thought flashed: how powerful was Mycroft’s Viscount Ridley? Would Sherlock Holmes’ brother agree to be our intermediary? I discovered the answer to that on waking up from a fitful sleep just before dawn. Should the Home Secretary be minded to dismiss us, we would threaten to take our findings to Mr W.T. Stead. Would he prefer the whole story splashed on the pages of the Gazette, or choose, what to them, would the lesser of two evils, a judiciously planned police raid with the participation of the Secret Service in order to ensure that the Prince of Wales’ reputation be safeguarded. We knew that this was a sine qua non. Next day, Algie, Minahan and Count von Klapisberg arrived at the door of Number 221B Baker Street, where we were received with surprising cordiality although Holmes kept calling Minahan, Monaghan. It seems that the detective was in fine spirit after his return from Broadmoor where he had just solved the famous Baskerville mystery. He paid scant attention to me, and I found this comforting. Clarihoe put him in the picture and Minahan filled in with the details. He mused to himself a lot but at no time did he commit himself in any way, although I thought I read the phrase ‘Might well mean the tower for us’ once. A little while later, I heard him mutter to himself the words, ‘But that villain Moriarty will find a way to disentangle himself ’. The only concrete thing he said was that he would take us to see Mycroft and urge him to listen to us.

  In the event, the moment we mentioned Mr Stead’s name, we found Mycroft very receptive to our idea. He assured us that a raid such as the one we had in mind was feasible, and desirable. He knew that the Viscount thought highly of Abberline, and he, Mycroft knew how to talk his superior into taking difficult decisions. Trust him.

  The following Wednesday, full of optimism, the Club, in various guises made our way towards the infamous establishment in Cleveland Street. We sat ourselves on separate benches in the Fitzroy Square Gardens which afforded a partial view on Cleveland Street. We saw Prince Victor Albert get off a hansom just outside the Gardens and pulling his hat down to hide his face walk briskly towards Hammond’s. We then saw Somerset and Euston, with Bartola walking arm in arm with Artémise following them very expertly. By a pre-arranged signal they signified to the others that the quarry too had entered that den of iniquity. There was no sign of the Professor, but then he might well have arrived earlier. In the guise of window shoppers, we surreptitiously made our way to Cleveland Street and we did not have to wait long to see police cabs with coppers and Secret Service men inside, quietly making their appearance and stopping outside the Bath. Shortly after, the sight of the quartet with cuffs round their wrists being escorted by men in uniform with Inspector Abberline in charge was as refreshing to us as an oasis appearing to our hardy explorers dying of thirst in the desert.

  We were in the dark about the details, but it was not difficult for us to put the pieces together like Artémise’s drawings of bits of the human face, to get the full picture. Mycroft had gone to the Viscount as he had promised and the latter had ordered Inspector Abberline to mount the operation, with some members of the Secret Service under his command. Discretion is of the essence, Abbeline, he had instructed. The Prince was whisked away by Secret Service chaps with a hood over his head to hide his identity, although passers-by had not failed to see him in cuffs earlier, and taken to the Home Office where he was delivered into the hands of the Home Secretary himself (in the presence of Mycroft). He angrily promised that he would tell pater to sack the Viscount, but the latter would later be heard regaling his visitors of how he had witnessed a royal slap being dispensed to the irresponsible puppy.

  Somerset and Euston were clapped into police cells in Bow Street with Moriarty. The latter was found with two hundred guineas on his person and when asked to account for them explained that the Prince had given him the money as an endowment to buy mathematical tomes for the University of London library. His visit to the Turkish Bath was done in all innocence. As an unworldly academic, he had been used to accept the written word for what it said. A Turkish bath was a place where one went to clean oneself and relax one’s tired muscles. After a sleepless night working on Fermat’s theorem, he badly needed relaxation. Abberline said that he was sending for Mr Holmes to deal with him, but this left him unfazed.

  ‘I will tell Mr Holmes and indeed the whole world, by the courtesy of Mr Stead of the Pall Mall Gazette about how, to my horror, I overheard the Prince of Wales and his friends plot the murder of an innocent politician in a bordello.’

  This left the law enforcers in a quandary. Abbeline had promised the Home Secretary that he would keep his Royal Highness’ name out of the scandal. He had no alternative but to let the evil professor go. Holmes consoled himself with the thought that catching up with the evil master criminal was only a matter of time. Somerset and Hammond, with the connivance of Labalmondière were likewise allowed to escape and were last heard of in France. Euston made sure he dropped his title to gain anonymity and henceforth went by the less distinguished name of Mr Fitzroy. Moriarty lived to die another day, at the Reichenbach Falls, at the hands of his archenemy Mr Sherlock Holmes (with some help from yours truly.)

  Oh, and Mr Lloyd George, who has probably never heard of the Club des As, survived this and many other plots against him and did become Prime Minister of the country. He was the architect of many an admirable reform. And I acquired the reputation of a villain and femme fatale! But I don’t mind, my friends at the C
lub love me for all my fault.

  he was probably the prettiest woman I have ever laid eyes on. When I was treading the boards, I came across the most stunningly beautiful females: doe-eyed virgins, full-chested seductresses, blonde balls of fire, dark-haired Carmens. No wonder Coleridge left me for her, not that he and I were joined at the hips, and not that I minded. My American lover and I had an understanding for just such contingencies. The most important connection between us has always been friendship. My wispy incoherence will, I hope, become more transparent in the next paragraph.

  We were rehearsing Trelawney of the Wells for the re-opening of the Alhambra which had been newly rebuilt after the fire in 1882. I had been told that PQR, Paul Quentin-Rathbone, wanted me for a part and I had been naturally hoping to be offered ‘Rose’, which would have worked wonders for my becalmed career on the planks. Fact is, Paul, a very promising man, had promised me a “huge big part” in his next production after I had played a soubrette in a Restoration production of his, but after I had refused him a certain favour, I knew that there was no point holding my breath. I did not shed any tears, hot or otherwise, when ‘Rose’ went to another (who shall remain nameless), and I was grudgingly offered ‘Clara de Foenix.’

  It was not an earth-shattering role, but it would have kept me in bread and jam if not in ham and cheese. In those days I was young and optimistic and felt it in my bones that someday the curtains would inevitably rise on my astounding career. Why wouldn’t it? I was a good person and had harmed neither beast nor man. I was never in doubt about either my unique beauty or my boundless talent. So for the time being I was going to play my minor part with all the fibres in my body, and watch the duly impressed impresarios colliding with each other in their scramble to come offer me contracts. So, imagine my disappointment when PQR summoned me in his office a full week after rehearsals had begun and told me that he had had to reconsider the casting and was offering ‘Clara’ to someone else. He did, however, promise (as I said, a very promising man) that there would be a plum part for me in his next production. It’s a promise, he said, adding without irony, ‘And I don’t make promises lightly’. I am not much given to shedding tears except onstage, so I shrugged and left without even asking him for a reason. In those days I usually sought solace in the arms of the insatiable Coleridge, but we had been out of touch for four months. When I located him, I found him, uncharacteristically unenthusiastic about what I would have dearly loved to offer him.