Although there were many empty seats, he took his time to choose one. He carefully walked along the aisle, obviously seeking me out. I had purposely not disguised my appearance. If a bait looked like a piece of wood, it would be a seriously foolish fish which would be attracted to it. He caught sight of me. I recognised a hardly perceptible smile of triumph on his lips, as he sat himself down, facing me, on an aisle seat three rows away. A creature of habit, I mused to myself. This would clearly enable him to keep a close watch on me. As we were approaching Leicester Square, I picked up my handbag, suggesting that I had reached my destination. I noticed that he immediately straightened himself up, he too in readiness for a quick exit. I pretended to look for a handkerchief and having found one, I replaced the bag next to me and wiped my forehead. My pursuer relaxed and sat back. Bartola smiled as she recognised my little joke. Just as we were nearing Knightsbridge, I scratched my nose with my right thumb, a pre-arranged signal to my accomplices to get ready. As the doors opened I walked out and Moran followed me out, making no attempt to disguise his intention. What he did not know was that my two friends were tailing him in the same manner. I walked down the Brompton Road in the direction of Harrod’s. An observer might have enjoyed watching the resonance of our movements. When I slowed down, so did Moran, resulting in my two friends who were walking side by side, to do the same. When I stopped suddenly, so did they. Naturally when I entered the department store, they followed suit.
My strategy was to shake him off and let my able friends pick up the baton. As they were unknown to Moran, this afforded them all the latitude they needed to follow him. I made for the Ladies Facilities straight away. Fortunately Moran did not follow me in there. Had he done so, he would have discovered my plan. I would learn later that he stayed in the near vicinity, looking at perfumes which he had no intention of buying, while Bartola and Armande watched him, unobserved, from a sheltered vantage point some distance away. He must have wondered what I was doing that took twenty minutes. I will reveal all: I began by changing my high heeled Captain Thomas Watson Greig three-inch shoes into the pair of flat heeled footwear of the sort favoured by Lady Mordaunt. At a stroke this lost me significant height. I took off my hat, chosen specially for its size as it had further enhanced my tallness and put in my bag, donning a silk scarf instead. I must have looked a whole foot shorter after. The coat I wore was specially designed and made by Bartola working non-stop on Saturday. It could be worn inside out, when its green exterior gave way to red.
When I emerged duly transformed (after twenty minutes) I walked straight past the colonel. He did not bat an eyelid. Why would he? The woman he had watched going in, and the one he saw coming out were of different stature and had different head wears, and to all intents and purposes sported mantles of different colours. I blithely retraced my steps to Knightsbridge Station and went home to Water Lane. The dénouement rested in the capable hands of Bartola and Armande.
My colleagues flitted from counter to counter, looking at face powder and rouges, ribbons, silk stockings, observing the colonel who, for his part, dared not move. He was so intent on watching the toilet door that he was in blissful ignorance of the two women’s agenda. They were certain that he was completely unaware of them. He orbited round the aura of perfume as if he was attached to it by an invisible cord. Bartola was surprised that apart from themselves, none of the dozens of shoppers or sales assistants seemed to find it strange that people would hover for so long at one counter without buying anything. When the transformed Irene emerged, they were so stunned by the change in her appearance that they had a fit of giggling which they successfully repressed.
They saw Moran cast a cursory glance at the woman emerging from the powder room, completely fooled by the spectacular change, initially at least. My two friends watched him for a while, as his eyes followed the transformed Irene, his own antennae humming in his head, but not too frantically.
After I had gone through the door, the military man suddenly seemed beset by a doubt. He rushed towards the exit, but his umbilical chord, being only moderately elastic, pulled him back, causing his head to swing comically, defeating his endeavour to simultaneously watch both the door of the facilities and the shop entrance, resulting in him seeing neither. He cast a cursory glance in the direction in which I had disappeared, convinced himself that he was just being overcautious and rushed back to his original anchorage, presumably much to the relief of his sorely stretched moorings. The seed of doubt, once sown in his mind did not just wither and die. My two friends noticed how he started to fuss and fidget. He finally seemed to have accepted that he had lost this set. My two helpers wished that he would give up and leave, but had to wait another half hour before this wish became reality.
When the crazed war hero finally made up his mind to leave, they followed him out, keeping at a fair distance behind. He had lost his erstwhile self-assurance and determination. This was evident in his strides. They were now uneven, as if he was not sure where he wanted to go, or even if he wanted to go there. He stopped randomly, turning round, unable to decide which direction he was aiming for. He seemed to be making for the Tube station and did finally get to the entrance. He hesitated before going in. He changed his mind once more and finally walked briskly towards the recently built Royal Court Theatre in Sloane Square. There were a few hansom cabs parked on the tree-lined avenue.
‘I would have preferred him to take the tube,’ whispered Armande. Obviously following someone in a hansom was rather more problematic. There was, however, no alternative.
‘We av no choice,’ said the Frenchwoman with a Gallic shrug and a moue, and Bartola concurred.
They knew that the coachman would have found their demand strange, but the moment Moran jumped into one, they boldly entered the one behind it.
‘Follow that cab,’ Armande said with determination, imagining herself to be a character from the Mr William Le Queux’s The Count’s Chauffeur. The cabbie smiled ironically, imagining himself to be The Count’s Chauffeur. ‘Whatever yer ladyships say.’
‘Be as discreet as you can,’ instructed Bartola. The driver shrugged and smiled enigmatically.
The two cabs, one following the other, crossed Battersea Bridge and made for Clapham Common. From there they both aimed for Balham. For a while they sped along the Balham High Street, then suddenly Moran’s turned into Brook Close. The women knew that they would be giving the game away if they followed suit. They asked to be dropped on the High Street, at the junction with the Close. Moran’s cab disappeared from view, leaving them in a quandary. Not that they were about to give up. They aimed to go down the street to investigate.
After only a short while they espied the cab coming back, having dropped its fare.
On an impulse they hailed it, with the intention of questioning the cocher.
‘That might be not be enough though,’ the Italian woman whispered. ‘Even if he tells us, we won’t know if that’s where he lives.’
‘You mean he could be visiting someone?’ asked the Frenchwoman. They agreed that it would still be a valuable find.
They stopped the cab and climbed inside. Pleased that he was getting another fare so readily, the cabbie welcomed them aboard merrily.
‘Where do you good ladies want to go?’
‘We will pay you the fare for taking us to Clapham Common,’ Bartola said.
‘But we av no intention of going zair.’
‘?’
‘You drop us at the junction with Balham High Street.’
‘But ladies, that will be the shortest ride in the history of hired transport, barely twenty five yards,’ laughed the bemused and bewhiskered man.
‘Ole we nid to know is ware in the close you dropped the man.’
‘Ladies, that would be breaking the professional code,’ he said, but did not appear shocked by the possibility though.
‘We pay professional rets.’
&n
bsp; ‘A pound?’ said Bartola in a husky voice.
‘Make it a guinea and it’s a deal.’
‘You drive a ard bargen,’ Armande said, shrugging, whereupon he told them that it was the last house in the Close. The one with the green door, on the left. If Moran actually lived there, that information would be the single most important find of the whole operation so far. He dropped them at the Junction, as they had asked. They were quite exhausted after the strain of the morning, their clothes all crumpled up, and their hair undone. They waited in the Mulberry Tea House on the High Street. If the proprietor was surprised at their dishevelled appearance, she hid it well.
‘I do not remember drinking so much tea in one day,’ Bartola narrated later, amid giggles.
‘Or eeting so much unmanageable pastry,’ added Armande. She meant inmangeable, uneatable in English.
It was necessary to find out if Moran was visiting an associate or if it was one of his many abodes. ‘The quarry seemed to have disappeared into that Close like you had, in the Harrod’s Powder Room,’ Bartola told me.
‘But ee apeered two ole hours later,’ Armande said.
The moment they saw him emerge into the High Street from the Close, they immediately made a further crucial discovery: he had not been visiting, it was his own house. Did I know how they arrived at that conclusion? Bartola queried. I thought for a while, but could not find an immediate answer. Bartola was mightily pleased.
‘Elementary my dear Miss Adler!’ She said. Did I remember the colour of the shirt Moran was wearing when he followed us into Harrod’s?
‘Yes. Beige.’ My two friends smiled happily. It was Armande who explained that when he reappeared, he was wearing a light blue one. Conclusion: he had changed shirts. Deduction: He had a wardrobe in Brook Close. Ergo, he lived there. I could imagine alternative explanations, but their logic did indeed seem more than plausible.
***
Having made that important discovery, there was no time to waste. The papers had been full of stories of the forthcoming German invasion of France. There was much conjecturing about the date. The experts were debating whether the enemy would use the English Channel for their forced entry, into France initially, or not. It was believed that Britain would be in their sights once they had overpowered our neighbours of the Entente. I knew from Sherlock Holmes that the cabinet was not at all sanguine about this eventuality. The defence facilities of our southern ports were pretty inadequate, bordering on laughable. We had a much smaller force than either the French or the Germans. Half of our current forces were overseas, keeping order in the colonies. The bulk of our army was made of improperly trained volunteers anyway. Kaiser Wilhelm was scornful of the danger we posed. He could deal with us anytime he chose. We were unprepared. We had a shortage of canons and boats. Our men were unprepared. If the German spies were doing their jobs properly, the enemy would have been well aware of our weaknesses. A sea-borne invasion of France via the English Channel would be a much more sensible option for them. Going through Luxembourg, Belgium and Alsace-Loraine would be much more hazardous. Now this traitor was confirming these regrettable facts to the enemy. Mycroft said that stopping Moran from delivering the secrets that he had filched from the War Office may or may not influence the Kaiser, Helmuth von Motke, his Chief of Staff, or admiral von Tirpitz, but it would be criminal not to attempt it. I was entrusted with the mission to derail Moran’s treachery. I dedicated myself to this mission with all the fibres in my body, and was ready to risk my life to serve my country.
I telephoned Mr Holmes to inform him of our progress and to confirm to him that the countdown to the operation had begun. I was deeply touched by his concern for me. He could not hide his emotion as he wished me good luck.
‘I wish that you and I had got to know each other better. At the risk of embarrassing you, I must say that I have never seen you do anything to even remotely justify any of the negative things I’ve heard about you. You are true to what you believe in, and as an Englishman, I am glad we are on the same side, Irene.’ I cannot recall a single other time in our long association when he had used my first name.
‘Ah, Mr Holmes,’ said I with put-on hilarity, ‘it’s because you know so little of me. Anyway, I do not recall receiving orders from anybody to go get myself killed. If anybody has an appointment with our Maker, it will be Moran, not I. You can’t get rid of me that easily.’ The moment I put the receiver down, one drop of tear rolled down my cheek. Just the one.
Next morning, I was in the Mulberry on Balham High where Bartola and Armande had spent hours yesterday. I heartily agreed with the Frenchwoman’s opinion of the pastry. Luck was on my side, for before the need arose for me to order a second slice, I saw Moran emerge from the Close, walking with a limp. The observant eye would have observed that his hobble arose from lameness which kept shifting from one leg to the other. He was dressed like a vicar and had a small leather bag in his hand. He was wearing singularly unattractive spectacles in a metallic frame. He turned into Balham High Street and took the direction of Clapham. I gave him five minutes and made for the house with the green door. I opened it with my set of false keys.
The house had the feel of not being lived in. It reminded me of a holiday home, with its musty smell. The sparse furniture was covered in a thin layer of dust. The small study on the left as you came in, was, by contrast very well-kept. Everything sparkled. The desk was of darkvarnished mahogany. On the wall, above a swivel armchair was Creuze’s La Jeune Fille àl’Agneau. Mr Holmes had told me that it was when he had learnt that Moriarty had bought this valuable painting for an insane amount that he had first suspected the mathematical genius to be doubling up as a criminal mastermind. Either Moran had purloined it, or inherited it. The desk had a number of locked drawers which I had no difficulty opening.
Suddenly I heard some commotion outside the door, and got my pistol in readiness. If it was the colonel, I was still unsure about whether I had it in me to shoot him dead. It was only the postman. Two letters came in through the door, both addressed to Osman E. Baristan. Must be his Turkish landlo.... No, it was a clever anagram. I discovered many more envelopes with that name in a drawer, suggesting that he was passing himself for a Turkish national. If confirmation was needed, I saw some red Fez caps with tassels in a cupboard, as well as Oriental silk shirts and ivory studs, as favoured by Middle Easterners. I saw a safe nestled in an inner recess in a wall in his study. I had no difficulty incracking it open. As expected, I found a large envelope full of papers with a red seal in his safe. I pulled out its contents. There, large as life was a collection of documents, all relating to the parlous state of the English armed forces and navy. The weaknesses of our defences, the shortage of seagoing crafts. The numbers of our armed forced in India, in the Gold Coast, Penang or Nigeria. It was obvious that once the Germans had confirmation of our unpreparedness, they would take the decision we dreaded most: attack through the English channel. According to Mycroft, the terrain into Eastern France via Alsace or Luxembourg was a formidable disincentive to an invasion. A seaborne incursion would lead to an early collapse of the forces of the Entente Cordiale.
If I had entertained any doubt about my ability to shoot a man I did not know, in cold blood, imagining the havoc caused by the treachery of this evil lunatic, wiped it off entirely. It must be by his death, as Brutus said. Appropriately it would be for the general good too. All I had to do was wait for him to come back. I was ready for all eventualities. He might go to another abode ofhis, but choice I had none. Mam often said that one did not need to fear the worst. God saw to it that things sorted themselves out for the best in the end. I may or may not believe in God’s willingness to interfere on behalf of the just, but I always believed in Mam. I was suddenly assailed by a thought. An idea does not take time to form. It needed no gestation period. It was not like a photograph in its stages of development, when one first sees the outlines which then fill up before one’s ver
y eyes. An inspiration comes ready-made. One moment it does not exist and the next it is there, perhaps not fully formed, but viable. My decision was made: I was not going to wait for the villain.
***
I rushed to Baker Street and was ushered in by Mrs Obassanju.
‘So, the deed is done?’ Sherlock Holmes asked as he showed me to my chair. I shook my head. I am sure that I had a smile on my lips nonetheless. He quizzed me by a combination of amovement of the head, a widening of his eyelids, a twitch of the lips and a frown, unsupported by a single word.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Can I entreat you to listen to me without any preconceived idea?’ He looked at me with his piecing eyes. I could see (I think) that he was in a turmoil. On the one hand, he respected my judgement, but then, he also believed that killing Moran to stop him delivering the secrets to his German contact was non-negotiable. Mycroft had said so.
‘I am listening,’ he said in a non-committal tone.
‘There is little or nothing to be gained by killing Moran. In principle, all the Cabinet requires is that we stop the papers making their way to Wilhelmstrasse. Right?’ He did not take the bait. ‘Inany case, the enemy already has a good inkling of our weaknesses. With Moran gone and the secrets undelivered, they would not all of a sudden change their minds. We would have achieved nothing.’
‘So?’ I detected a slight awakening of interest in him. I told him that I had taken the papers that Moran was preparing to hand over to the agent, and gently tapped the bag in which they were now. He frowned, but I immediately reassured him. I had filled a similar envelope with paper, sealed it with wax, and put it in his safe. He stared at me, at first harshly, but I was pleased when I saw a smile take possession of his face. He had successfully read my thoughts.
‘I think I can see what you’re thinking. Correct me if I am wrong. You have a plan to take this mission one step further?’
The Adventures of Irene Adler : The Irene Adler Trilogy Page 18
