The Adventures of Irene Adler : The Irene Adler Trilogy

by San Cassimally

  Dai Lernière had been doing nicely if not spectacularly, handling humdrum cases which offered no great challenge, earning her just enough to pay the bills. The Rosa Selbow divorce case was perhaps an exception. If it brought great professional satisfaction, the financial returns were nil. The lady was so surprised by the turn of events, that she entirely forgot to honour the invoice I sent her. I did not have the heart to spoil her new-found bliss in the arms of her inamorata Miss Verdi by sending her a reminder.

  One Thursday morning, arriving at my office in Warren Street, I had just sat at my desk with a cuppa, and was perusing some dossiers when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to two ladies. Sisters? I wondered. I dismissed the conjecture. Something in their demeanour told me instead that they were mother and daughter. The older woman was tall, well-proportioned, handsome and elegant, and the younger one, a frail beauty, dressed with calculated poor taste, looked like a gawky teenager. They introduced themselves as Ethel Windibank, a widow, and Mary Sutherland, her daughter. The former had been on stage, she promptly told me, but had had an unspectacular career. Mary worked as a typist, but aspired to become an author. She had two stories printed in the Cornhill Magazine two years ago, but nothing since.

  ‘She’s so talented,’ said Ethel, ‘she will be the next Charlotte Yonge.’

  ‘Mother.r.r,’ protested the younger woman. ‘No, don’t listen to her, sir. I just dabble in silly romances. Nothing more.’ Her blushing and blinking notwithstanding, I recognised a look in her eyes which belied this.

  Their garments were in noticeable contrast. Whilst the mother had a colourful frock, an expensive jacket, a hat with a cameo on its ribbon, and rouge on her cheeks, Mary had a drab dirty brown skirt and a Gingham blouse. On her head, she wore an anachronistic bonnet. She had sunken eyes, sallow skin and had no make-up. The moment they sat down, the older woman began talking.

  ‘It may be a bit previous,’ she said. ‘I mean there’s probably a simple explanation, there always is, isn’t there? I mean I know we shouldn’t be panicking really. When they come back they’ll have a plausible story to tell and we’ll look stupid. You know what I mean?’ I wasn’t sure if I did.

  ‘You’re obviously upset, but did someone disappear? You think he might turn up?’ She shook her head violently.

  ‘Mrs Windibank, why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me what happened?’

  ‘Mother is too distraught to make any sense. They both vanished.’

  ‘?’

  ‘Father and Mr Barr.’

  ‘Mr Windibank? And your young man?’ They nodded.

  ‘When did that happen?’ I asked. Mrs Windibank opened her mouth but said nothing. It was Mary who spoke.

  ‘They left last Friday evening,’ she said. ‘When they went missing, we don’t know.’ I didn’t immediately follow, but worked out that she meant they could not be considered to have disappeared from the moment they walked out of the house. A subtle distinction.

  ‘They left whilst I was cooking the fish dinner,’ Mrs Windibank said. ‘For some fresh air, they said. They might have gone for a quick ale at the Waggon and Horses. They said they’d be back in a quarter of an hour. Haven’t been seen since.’

  ‘You went to the police of course?’ Ethel looked at her daughter, but the latter seemed to be happy to leave all the talking to her mother.

  ‘Of course, Mr Lernière. At first they assured us that there was usually a simple explanation to such disappearances. They will turn up once they’ve sobered up, they told us.’ Their men were not drunkards, she had said indignantly. They were only occasional drinkers. They had the odd pint like everybody else, bless their hearts, but no one could accuse them of drunkenness.

  ‘We went back on Monday,’ she continued. The coppers were more forthcoming this time.

  They asked questions and took notes, but the two women had the feeling that they had no idea where to start looking. Or had the intention to do so for that matter.

  ‘What, dare I ask, are you going to do about it?’ Mrs Windibank had asked, I imagine with a degree of aggression.

  ‘Why ma’am, we’ll keep looking of course.’ Mother and daughter clearly had no faith in officialdom.

  ‘Which is why we decided to come to see you. We’ve been told that you were one of the best.’ This was a rare incursion from Mary Sutherland.

  ‘Tell me, I am guessing from your names. Is Mr Windibank your second husband? Miss Sutherland’s step-father?’ They nodded.

  ‘I went to all the bars in the Caledonian Road area and asked if they had seen my father and Rudy- Mr Rudolph Barr.’ Not since last Friday, she was told.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Windibank suddenly, ‘about payment-’ I interrupted her.

  ‘That’s a rule I go by. If I discover the truth about a case, then I would consider that I had fulfilled my part of the contract to you, and will send you an invoice. If I do not solve the case, then I feel unable to charge you.’ Ethel readily agreed.

  ‘In the event that they had met with a fatal accident, I would be reluctant to send you a bill,’ I said, rather indelicately. The older woman at me with undisguised hostility, no doubt upset by this eventuality. Mary suddenly turned to me, and spoke.

  ‘If something awful has happened to them, sir, and you establish that fact, we would deem that you had delivered your part of the bargain.’ I marvelled at how clearly and dispassionately she expressed herself in spite of her obvious diffidence.

  ***

  They lived in Frederica Close, off the Caledonian Road, in a two storied house.

  Nothing fancy though, Ethel assured me. She repeated that she had been an actress who had appeared in the West End (I had no recollection of her), but had been swept off her feet by Alfie, her first husband, Alfred Sutherland. A finer man never breathed God’s air, she said, wiping a tear. He was the finest plumber who wielded a spanner. A sworn enemy to leaks and puddles, she added with a little laugh. Kind and handsome. Always a cheerful word to everybody he met.

  ‘Yes, I get the picture.’

  ‘But the good Lord- who can understand His ways?- thought fit to gather him. Whilst digging a drain, a wall collapsed on him and killed him on the spot.’

  ‘I understand that you remarried shortly after?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know what we’d have done without Windibank. Widower. No children. It was not love at first sight, sir, not even at second sight, but I respected him. He was a kind, thoughtful man, who readily provided for my little orphan and myself.’

  ‘How did he make his living?’

  ‘Oh, he was a man of property. We received a good income from his rents, but he was also a wine importer. You’ve seen his shops in Piccadilly. A. A. Windibank Importer of Wines & Spirits. Brewer Street. He had to travel to Bordeaux in France every month on business.’ Probably went to France for a bit of fun too, a cynical voice in my head whispered.

  ‘Have you thought that he might have-’

  ‘No sir. They wouldn’t just shoot off to France on a Friday night.’ She looked at me with a smile. ‘Not when I have made them a fish supper. I use beer in my batter, you know.’ I liked her self-deprecating sense of humour. I asked about Barr. Mary answered, ‘A good sweet man.’ I waited in vain for more. Mrs Windibank noticed this and took over. Her eyes lit up as she decided to pick up the baton. So tall and handsome, she said, adding the usual bits about his kindness and thoughtfulness. I turned to the daughter and asked a few questions, indicating to Mrs Windibank with a hand gesture that I wanted her daughter to answer.

  ‘He was a clerk in an office in Leadenhall Street.’

  ‘Doing what?’ I asked. She shook her head violently. He was very secretive about his work, she said. She suspected that he might be involved in Intelligence work for the Secret Service, but whenever she asked for details, he said that he would tell her everything once they were wed, bu
t please don’t ask now. How did they meet?

  ‘It was father who was concerned that I had reached the age of one and twenty and had not yet formed a romantic attachment.’

  ‘ “A ravishing young woman like you”, he told her, “could have the pick of the young swains around. Go and let him find you,” ’ he said. And she did. And he found her.’

  ‘We found each other, Mother.’ Mary interrupted with a pretend scowl.

  ‘I taught her to dance the waltz. When I was young and danced the hesitation waltz at parties, everybody would stop and gather around me to watch in admiration. There’s this Dance Hall which had just opened in Tottenham Court Road. No doubt you’ve heard of it. I said to her she should go there. With her natural rhythm she took to it like a duck to water.’

  ‘Who did you go with?’ I asked. I could hardly imagine a shy young thing like her walking into the Dance Hall on her own. ‘I mean the first time.’ Ethel looked away.

  ‘Why? Mr Lernière, I went with my friend from work.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Melissa Brent. After we met, I would wait for Mr Barr outside.’ I was surprised that it was not Mr Barr who did the waiting.

  ‘The moment I saw Mr Barr, I said to myself, I want this man for my husband.’ I was surprised at this comment. The sentiment was easy to understand, but Mary had struck me as shy and unassuming. On reflection, I decided that these last two characteristics were not necessarily incompatible with clear-headed determination. One can be shy and knows what one wants. She was willing to elaborate further.

  ‘I was pleased when I found that Mr Barr lived on the Seven Sisters Road. We’re practically neighbours. I don’t need the tram or the bus to visit him, I can walk there.’ Did she mean that she visits him in his lodgings? I wondered. I was bewildered by how she see-sawed from the shy blinking virgin, to a frank-speaking, not to say, brash woman who did not fear to express her innermost thoughts. Who walked into bars on her own to enquire about two missing men.

  ‘I’m so grateful to father for encouraging me,’ she said out of the blue. But was she really? I wondered. I must record here that among the many skills I learnt from Mr Holmes, one of the most useful was gleaned from the reading and studying of his monograph, Interpretations of the Truth From Body and Eye Movements. His theory is that you can tell lies with words, or sometimes by staying silent, but you are always betrayed by your eyes or how you turn your head and limbs. Even an inveterate liar suffers from stress as he or she tells an untruth. This leads to the flow from some glands which irritates the nose in particular. A liar is often unable to resist touching his nose. When telling an untruth your pupils shrink and not even the cleverest criminal has any control over them.

  Talking about something pleasurable makes your pupils dilate, sometimes up to fourfold. Stress causes your hands to jerk and you cannot stop them. The temperature of your hands drop but other parts of your body become warmer. Or you move your feet in a direction indicating that you are anxious for a quick exit when you become embarrassed. Mary’s bold claim about her stepfather was accompanied by signs and movements which showed that she was not comfortable saying the words.

  ‘So, was your father delighted with your betrothed?’

  ‘My father is dead, Mr Lernière. Oh sorry, you mean Mr Windibank? Yes, he was indeed. The two men immediately became friends.’ That protestation was completely unexpected, coming so shortly after the glowing reference she had given him. Further, it was in line with my observation. She blushed as she realised the contradiction.

  ‘Well, Mr Windibank was in his sixties and Mr Barr was only twenty three,’ Ethel intervened, ‘but they had much in common. They both liked horse-racing. Not that they were reckless gamblers or anything. They went to the Hendon Dog tracks together. They enjoyed each other’s company and often spent hours together at the pub. They used to joke a lot, and when they were together the house was filled with banter and laughter.’ I thought they were only occasional drinkers.

  ‘You say they used to go drinking together. Do you know which pub they went to?’ The two women weren’t sure.

  ‘They drank locally?’ I asked. Yes, came the answer.

  ‘Mother, wasn’t it the Waggon and Horses they spoke of.’ Ethel acquiesced rather loudly. I asked for the address on the Seven Sisters Road where Mr Barr kept lodgings.

  ‘Just one more question: Did Mr Windibank have any family?’ No, he was a widower.

  Would he have had in-laws, his first wife’s relatives? Not that they knew of. Did he have any brothers? Sisters? No, he never talked about any family. They assumed that he had nobody.

  ‘His only brother went to New Zealand and was never heard of,’ said Ethel. ‘He died six years ago.’

  ‘You’ve been married for how long?’

  ‘Twelve years. Mary was nine.’

  ‘Did he never receive letters from New Zealand?’

  ‘No, never,’ said Ethel.

  ‘How did he learn of his brother’s death?’ Mary took over. No, they never learnt of his death. They just assumed. “You know, Ethel, that brother of mine who went to New Zealand, and who never wrote? I am assuming that he has died.”

  ‘One last thing,’ I said on an impulse, ‘Miss Melissa Brent? Where can I see her?’ Mary gave a little laugh. ‘Strange you should ask, but the family moved to Newcastle last summer.’

  If they had been tense on arrival, they seemed at ease after an hour. I promised them that I would see the matter through to the end. I told them that I might need to visit them in case I needed more information.

  ***

  I had but few leads. I thought that I would start by visiting the bars in the area to find out what the landlords could tell me about the father and Mary’s young man. The Waggon & Horses on Holloway Road seemed more genteel than the others. The sun had gone down when I walked in there. It was half full. It was a relatively small place. The tables and chairs were nicely polished.

  The brass railings and door-handles shone like polished gold. Most people were seated round tables, with a mere handful at the bar, and another three or four gathered around the fireplace mantle. I tried to engage the man on my right in conversation, but he was mono-syllabic. I thought that the bartender was scowling at me. I have noticed that people who appeared to be laughing could easily be hiding a dark personality, but it was rare that you saw a man with a glum face who was a joyful person. Rare but not unheard of.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I muttered diffidently.

  ‘Hello there, Mister. Call me Guy. What can I do for you, sir?’ I placed my order for a pint of ale. ‘Have one for yourself,’ I offered. He accepted with a smile, and poured himself half a pint of something called Pilsener.

  ‘You’re new here, sir?’ Guy asked. I said I was just visiting friends. He went on serving other clients, but seemed curious about me and kept coming back.

  ‘Windibank?’ I said.’Does that name ring a bell?’ He demurred. ‘Aloysius?’ He nodded.

  Aye, Aloysius was a regular, although he hadn’t seen him in almost a week. Must have gone to Bordeaux, he said with a shrug. Guy explained that when he was in the country he often came for a quickie before dinner.

  ‘Did he come alone?’

  ‘Glum gentleman, your Mr Aloysius,’ he said. He was always on his own. Since Sutherland died. The plumber, did I know him? I nodded. He married his widow later, didn’t he? Rarely engaged in conversation with anyone, but he would exchange a pleasantry or two with Guy, seeing that they’ve known each other for a good few years.

  ‘Only this year he’s come with a young man, maybe four or five times.’

  ‘His step-daughter’s young man?’ I asked. ‘Five foot ten, well-built, bluish-grey eyes.’

  ‘Aye. A young man like you described. Aloysius never said nothing about him, but the young fellow made it a point to talk to me. Nothing that you’d pri
nt in no newspapers, just an exchange of pleasantries. They sat in the corner, next to the piano over there. Under the stag head.

  They just sat there drinking, never a laugh nor nothing. I had a feeling he disapproved.’ Of Barr, I presumed. What gave him that idea? Well, the young man talked to him, but Aloysius rarely said nothing back. It was as if he was in a hurry to leave.

  I tried a few more bars. No one had heard of him in the other places. I was slightly bemused. The best thing was to go to Barr’s lodgings in Seven Sisters Road. It was a genteel terraced house with iron railings and granite steps. The door was shiny blue. A grotesque brass gargoyle with bits of green in the grooves served as a knocker. I used it and waited. For a while there was no response, but after two whole minutes, I heard a shuffling noise. A breathless lady in her late fifties, in slippers and with curlers opened me up.

  ‘My name is Dai Lernière, I would like to talk to Mr Barr.’ She presented herself as Mrs Winifred Bellingsby, widow of Captain Bellingsby. Died in Khartoum. She indicated that she was not unwilling to answer my questions but did not invite me in.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, sir. Haven’t seen him in a whole week.’

  ‘I am a solicitor’s clerk,’ I said. ‘I have urgent business with him.’ The lady’s eyes lit up. She immediately asked me in and offered to make me a cuppa. I was ushered in an immaculate parlour with scintillating furniture from which the last particle of dust had been meticulously exterminated, and shown to a plush armchair. The room was decorated with polished brass ornaments of all sorts.

  A fruit ball with a mix of fruits meticulously arranged like in a painting by Fantin de la Tour, placed in the middle of a mahogany table immediately drew my attention. The lady collected tortoises.

  They were of all sizes, on shelves, the mantelpiece, in purpose-built glass cases. Some were no bigger than a grape whilst others were as big as pears. Tortoises in pewter, in brass, in wood, and, I daresay, there was even one in solid gold in a glass case.

  ‘Has Mr Barr come into money then?’ the landlady asked. I smiled and said that I was not allowed to divulge clients’ secrets, but thought that a complicit wink might encourage her to open up.