The Adventures of Irene Adler : The Irene Adler Trilogy

by San Cassimally

  Copyright © 2014 San Cassimally

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1503189856

  ISBN 13: 9781503189850

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014920396

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  Other books by San Cassimally

  The Case Book of Irene Adler

  The Memoirs of Irene Adler

  Sarah Bernhardt: My Erotic Life

  For Hakim, Karim & Katrina

  (With thanks to Jane Kliever and Enrico Harvey for producing the cover)

  Contents

  Irene Adler and Alfred Dreyfus

  The Affair of Sarah Bernhardt’s Skull

  The Wiles of the Wicked

  A Case of Identity

  Her Last Bow

  The Kidnapping

  Sebastian Moran

  ENCORE (A Death in Nigeria)

  A Remark

  It’s been years since Irene Adler saved Sherlock Holmes at the Reichenbach Falls. Following his advice she started offering investigating services under the guise of a man, Dai Lernière.

  Although they have different views on right and wrong, they often join forces against a common enemy, but it happens that they find themselves on opposite sides.

  Irene Adler and Alfred Dreyfus

  It is said that a chain is as strong as its weakest link. When you have a group of people of different backgrounds and tastes spending a lot of time together, as we in our Club des As do, the resulting effect is not unexpected. Coleridge instructed us into the finer points of music and shaped us into aficionados of bel canto. Armande turned us into wine connoisseurs and discerning gourmets. Artémise Traverson educated us in pointillisme, impressionisme and nature morte. The Bishop and Ivan Vissarionovich’s knowledge of world politics, made us gluttons for news of what was happening beyond our shores. Collectively we acquired the knowledge of everybody else in our circle, and our chain became as strong as its strongest link.

  It was inevitable that we should get to hear about Captain Alfred Dreyfus. He had stood trial on a charge of treason, been found guilty and condemned to exile on the Ile du Diable in South America. He had, allegedly, sold military secrets to the Germans. Anatole Frunk, our Swiss financial wizard had lived in France for some years. He had witnessed antisemitism in many forms, and had no doubt that the charges against the army captain had been fabricated because of his Judaism. And his wealth. The former banker explained that the condemned man was married into the rich Jewish Hadamard family of diamond merchants. He knew how much they possessed in Switzerland alone. In France, he averred, antisemitism was rampant. The army and the clergy were manifestly tainted by it. These two institutions were clearly instrumental in sowing the seeds of that invidious malignancy inside the minds of the population. The English press- antisemitism not being foreign to the establishment here- seemed unconcerned about the case, but one or two papers had expressed mild surprise. Armande’s nephew Honoré had written to her from Quimper, that the justice system in the country had gone mad. There they were, conveying the Youpin to some sunny island with warm beaches, when they should have sent him to the Guillotine. He sent her copies of La Libre Parole, in which the editor Edouard Drumont had written with such virulence against the captain, that we unanimously found ourselves adopting the opposite stance. We soon became convinced that it had been a scandalous miscarriage of justice. In London, far away from the tumultuous Parisian powder keg, we had other things to do and Captain Dreyfus and his tribulations disappeared from our consciousness in due course.

  One Tuesday morning, a day when Holmes and I often shared an hour together at the Parasol, the expression on his face was not the usual bland unemotional one to which I had become accustomed. I even thought I saw a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and I tackled him even before we had ordered our macaroons.

  ‘Out with it Mr Holmes, you are dying to tell me something.’ He gave a curt nod as an acknowledgement of my superior powers of observation.

  ‘You and I are going to Paris in three days, you had better start making preparations.’

  ‘If you say so, Lord and Master,’ I said. ‘Might one enquire into the ramifications of such a venture or is mine not to reason why?’ With a smile he explained.

  ***

  Mycroft had turned up at 221B early yesterday, covered in snow, his face flushed with the cold. He had helped him get rid of his wet coat and had deferentially pulled a chair for him. He knew instantly that the government mystery man was going to make some impossible demands on his time and energy, just as he knew that he would have no choice in the matter.

  ‘Yes, venerable wiser brother, out with it.’ Mycroft had not needed a second invitation.

  ‘As you know, the Cabinet is quite perplexed by this Dreyfus affair-’ Sherlock had interrupted.

  ‘Who, might I ask, is this Mr Dreyfus, and what affair might he be involved in? But more to the point, prithee, is it any of our affair?’

  Mycroft had explained about the French artillery officer, an Alsatian of Jewish origin, who had been found guilty of selling military secrets to the Germans. The Viscount suspected that the man had been framed, and feared that he was going to die a wretched death on that disease-ridden rat-infested Devil’s Island to which he had been exiled.

  ‘And since you took the trouble to come all the way to Baker Street this raw morning,’ the snowfall seen through the window had not abated one whit, ‘you clearly want me to do something.

  ‘Is it to raid the Bastille single-handedly and rescue this fellow?’

  ‘Ha ha! Very droll, runt. No we require rather less of you: the Viscount would like you to go to France to learn the truth and to gauge the attitude of the French nation in this matter, so he might inform the Cabinet about it.’

  ‘But Mycroft,’ said Sherlock, ‘I haven’t spoken French since we went to Paris with Mamma, when was it?’

  ‘Bring that hussy you seem so thunderstruck by with you. I believe she speaks everything, including Swahili. And has a brainpower equal to yours and mine combined, if that toady Wilson who chronicles your supposed exploits is to be believed.’ He meant me, and doctor Watson. I’ve always liked Mycroft.

  That was how I got drafted into the case which would prove to be my most satisfying yet, seeing that I would be instrumental in helping the poor man clear his name.

  ***

  After a week in Gay Paree, almost everybody we met who was not a raving lunatic, opined that the so-called damning evidence accrued against the captain would have never stood in an English court of justice. Besides, most thinking people were convinced that the bulk of it had been fabricated, and that the man was only guilty of being a rich Jew.

  Sherlock Holmes and I quickly gathered statements from informed sources expressing conviction of the captain’s innocence. Furthermore, we had gleaned the mood and feelings of the French man in the street regarding the affair, as Mycroft had instructed. We judged that we had accomplished what we had set out to do. We decided that our work was done and made our way back to London. I had only been able to meet my friend Sarah Bernhardt once, for an afternoon tea outside the theatre where she was rehearsing.

  Holmes went to see Mycroft in his home to deliver his report. Mycroft would then inform the Cabinet of our findings via Viscount Ridley. I went home in Water Lane, and became prone to insomnia and loss of appetite. I did not immediately recognise the origin of this malaise, but the patriotic Arma
nde suggested that it is always traumatic to exchange the titillating freshness and Parisian joie de vivre for the drabness of foggy London.

  ‘I ate going back ome for that very raison,’ she explained. ‘Whenever I do, coming back makes me deprimed.’

  Admittedly there was some truth in what my friend and landlady said, but it was rather more complicated. I saw the light in a flash one night. I was tossing listlessly in bed, like King Henry the Fourth (I had once entertained the vain hope that PQR would offer me a part in a forthcoming production of the Shakespearean play) asking myself:

  O sleep! O gentle sleep!

  Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,

  That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down

  And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

  It was true that our mission had been fulfilled, but was that enough? At breakfast, I shared this thought with Armande. She looked at me, smiled, and shook her head. Then, squinting playfully, she informed me that in twenty four hours I would be on my way back to Paris, expressing regret that she could not come with me. She could always read my thoughts, and clearly saw those windmills which seemed to be barring my route, and which she knew I would not leave unscathed.

  ***

  During my all too brief stay the first time round, Sarah Bernhardt, with whom I became friends some years ago when she came to the Alhambra to appear in Adrienne Lecouvreur, had made me promise that I would come back again soon.

  ‘And you will stay with me. No discussion. Quand même!’ That was her stock exclamation.

  Like Humpty Dumpty, she gave it a variety of meanings. Here it simply repeated the previous opinion. I frowned. She thought she knew why.

  ‘I promise that you won’t have to sleep in a...a circle...no, I mean cerceuil...the word is...is coffin, right? I have only one and I use it to understand my tragic roles better. Rest assured, for my guests, I have proper beds.’

  So, I had sent her a telegram informing her of my visit. Arriving in Paris, I made my way to the seizième arrondissement by fiacre, where she greeted me with great warmth, in her luxurious and chaotic appartement overlooking the Jardin de Ranelagh. I knew from our last conversation that she was deeply preoccupied by what she called l’affaire. She was delighted when I told her that the purpose of my second visit to her city was to help the innocent man clear his name.

  ‘I am being vainglorious, I know, and no doubt Quixotic,’ I said. ‘I know many good people have espoused his cause, but I feel that I might have a small contribution to make, if only to carry a banner across the Champs Elysées.’

  ‘But very sure, good blood,’ agreed the Divine Sarah. ‘You and I have a lot to contribute. As the play I was in made an oven, I find myself with plenty of time under my arms.’ She said nothing for a while and judging by her frowns, I knew that she was deep in thought. I think she meant that she was at my disposal.

  ‘Le Beau Pic Pic!’ she said suddenly. I gaped at her rather inelegantly, and she gave a very unladylike cackle.

  ‘Do you know Don Juan’s aria?’ And without warning she gave a rendering of Don Juan’s boast of how many women he has had.

  ...in Italia seicento e quaranta

  In Almagna duecento e trentina

  Cento in Francia, in Turchia novantina

  Ma in Ispagna son già mille e tre.’

  I had no idea what she was driving at.

  ‘Ma chère Irene,’ she said, ‘I have couched with more men- and women- than Signor Juan, and I can tell you that there are few men I have enjoyed more than Le Beau Pic Pic. Georges Picquart, Colonel Picquart. That fils de pute, as you know, was the one who laid the first trap for Dreyfus. We need to meet him.’ The unflattering epithet notwithstanding, she seemed quite fond of the military man.

  Now, as I write this account, I am in possession of most of the facts of the case: the Affair began when The Section de Statistiques, the name under which the French Secret Service operated, received papers gleaned from the waste paper basket of the German embassy. Madame Bastien, who worked there as a cleaner, was in reality a spy placed there by the Section for that very purpose. The material she collected, torn and crumpled bits of paper, when reconstituted immediately revealed that someone in the French army, manifestly an Artillery Officer, had been selling military secrets to their sometimes bellicose neighbour across the Rhine.

  At a time when many people deeply resented the presence of Jews in the French army, the name Alfred Dreyfus quickly stuck out. A Jewish captain! You blink and they’ll be running the French army. You blink a second time and they’ll be running the country. The inevitable trajectory from possible suspect to proven traitor was clear and short. This hatred of Jews was so deeply ingrained in the French army, the clergy, the press, even among the intellectual class, that the poor man was given no chance of proving his innocence. However, the army and the judiciary, priding themselves on their honourable traditions, wanted some sort of case made first, if only to cover their backs. It did not have to be watertight, or even genuine. Just something to be quoted if questions were asked. Commandant Picquart (as he was then) and Commandant du Paty du Clam were appointed by Chief of Staff, Général Boisdeffre to “wrap up the case”, not needing to have it spelled out to them that it was no more than a formality. Use your initiative, men! The two officers had relished the task. The ludicrous Du Clam, having claimed to be an expert graphologist, a plan was easy to elaborate. Picquart began by drafting an invitation to the unsuspecting victim-designate:

  “Paris, le 13 Octobre, 1894. Convocation:

  Le général de division, chef d’état-major général de l’armée, passera l’inspection de MM.les officiers stagiaires dans la journée du lundi 15 Octobre courant. M.le capitaine Dreyfus, actuellemet au régiment d’infanterie à Paris, est invité à se présenter à cette date et à 9 heures du matin au cabinet de M. le chef d’état-major général de l’armée en tenue bourgeoise.

  (Convocation: The General of the division, Chief of Staff of the army, will inspect trainee officers on Monday the 15th of October inst. Captain Dreyfus, presently of the Infantry Regiment in Paris, is invited to attend on this date at 9.00 a.m at the Headquarters of the Chief of Staff in civil.”)

  Obviously Dreyfus must have been surprised at being summoned so early, and could not understand why he had to be in civvies, but he was first and foremost a soldier and had never questioned orders from his superiors. On arriving at the HQ, he must have been even more surprised to see not a single other officer.

  Picquart remembered the Captain from the time when he lectured army cadets in topography. He was mildly surprised that such a conscientious and avid learner, as he remembered, could have betrayed his country, but did not dwell upon this. He found it distasteful to put on the pretence of being pleased at the sight of his former pupil, but he put a neutral arm on his shoulder and led him into his office. Dreyfus felt quite relaxed in his company, and dared comment on the fact that he seemed to be the only one who had turned up. Pic Pic did not answer. He gave a wry smile and cleared his throat. This made the visitor squirm visibly. He had understood that it was not going to be easy for him. Ready? Picquart asked suddenly. Dreyfus nodded. Follow me. He did as he was told and they stopped outside the office of General Boisdeffre. Picquart noticed the surprise on the face of the artillery officer as he perceived commandant du Paty de Clam behind the desk, and not Boisdeffre as he was expecting.

  Although Picquart had agreed to the rigmarole, the moment he saw his colleague’s bandaged right hand in a silk glove, he thought that the mise-en-scène was quite crude. Du Paty greeted the captain coldly and asked him to sit down. Capitaine, he began, I have an urgent communication to send, and as you see, I am unable to use my hand, I wonder if you would do it for me. The artillery officer was surprised, but had no choice. He made ready and waited, and the commander began dictating:

  “Paris, 15 Octobre 1894.

/>   “Ayant le plus grave intérêt, Monsieur, à rentrer momentanément en possession des documents que je vous ai fait passer avant mon départ aux manoeuvres, ...”

  “It is a matter of grave interest to me, Sir, to retrieve the documents that I sent to you before I leave for the manoeuvres, ...”

  Du Clam pursued the dictation in his drone of a voice, until he came to the crucial point, where it dealt with the military matter referred to in the bordereau- the slip provided by Madame Bastien.

  “Je vous rapppelle qu’il s’agit de:

  “Une note sur le frein hydraulique du canon de 120 et...”

  “May I remind you about:

  “A note on the hydraulic brake of the 120 cannon...”

  Although Dreyfus had not seemed shocked at this, du Paty suddenly bawled at him. This was also in the scenario that the two commanders had concocted, as a means of unsettling the suspect. “Why are you trembling, Captain?” Dreyfus blinked at the violence of the outburst, began by denying that he was trembling, and stammered that his hands were probably cold. The temperature was in fact quite low in the room on this cold autumn morning. Shortly after, Picquart, although he was aware of the agenda, was taken aback when he heard his colleague recite the arresting formula:

  ‘Alfred Dreyfus, in the name of the law, I arrest you for high treason.’ Dreyfus acted as if it was a bad dream from which he was urging himself to wake up, but stunned, he protested his innocence. De Clam then ordered him to be taken to the Cherche-Midi prison.

  Until he heard the formula, Picquart had entertained no qualms about the case. If there were traitors in the French army, there was no alternative to arresting them. The Jew had committed the ultimate military crime, for whatever reason, lucre or revenge. Anything that happened to him was what he deserved. And yet... He could not put his finger on it. He was beginning to feel uneasy about the manner in which the man had been apprehended. He was impressed by his dignity.