Sherlock Holmes Vs Irene Adler: A Duel of Wits (The Irene Adler Series Book 4)

by San Cassimally

  He had gathered information about a number of people connected with the various vices prevalent in Chelsea, pimps, gamblers and enforcers, so he knew about the ex-boxer. A former soldier, he had been in the Wolseley Expeditionary force which arrived in Khartoum too late to save Gordon. He had told his friends that the sight of the General hanging from a post in the public square in the Sudanese capital had quite unmanned him. On his return he turned to drink and crime. Somehow he was urged to try his luck in the ring, and unsurprisingly the writhing anger in his giant’s body made him a fearsome opponent, and for a while he was a rising star on the London boxing circuit. However, his drinking soon put an end to his aspirations, and he returned to his former haunts. The Irishman had been informed that he was often seen in the company of Cachefesse, and his suspicions, to the effect that he acted for the Belgian thug in the capacity of enforcer were easily confirmed.

  He decided to get in touch with Irene once more to put her in the picture and to ask her to suggest a hypothesis, as he could not make sense of the link between the two crimes. He too had been hugely impressed by the woman. Irene listened to him attentively, and when he had finished, admitted that she was flummoxed, but promised that she would do her utmost to discover how the two cases were related. ‘Perhaps I might visit Mr Holmes and ask for his opinion,’ she said. Minahan wasn’t sure if he liked that, for he did not much care for the man from Baker Street, mistaking his laconic nature for haughtiness, but he told Irene to do what she thought best.

  To the newspapers, two occurrences were readily translated into an epidemic. They were now daily printing stories of the Avenger so-called, out to wreak vengeance on the purveyors of sin, of which the Cremorne Gardens was the symbol. And about time too, they implied. A public outcry demanded the closure and demolition of this den of iniquity. The defenders of the amusement park responded by suggesting that far from striking a blow for decency, this half-baked measure would conduce to the spreading of vice throughout the city. The people of Chelsea now lived in constant fear of being attacked and deprived of one eye. Everybody maintained their complete lack of involvement in sinful practices, but averred that the Avenger would not know that. The popular expression, Locking the stable after the horse has bolted gave way to a more topical one: People were now saying, Sending Peelers to Cremorne Gardens to stop eye-gouging.

  Labalmondière was summoned by the Home Secretary, Lord Harcourt and sternly ordered to stop this epidemic and bring the perpetrator or perpetrators to book. I will amend the law and demand the penalty for the culprit, he promised. When in the next two weeks no one was found battered in Cremorne, Sir William proudly told Mr Gladstone that his handling of the law had seen a clear improvement on the streets of London. The power of love is winning it over the love of power, he said inappositely, more in the hope of earning a pat on the back from the Prime Minister, who often pontificated about that aforesaid power of love, than because he believed that his Force was winning the war against crime.

  The epidemic of eye-gouging had stopped, as quickly as it had started. Sir William Harcourt took all credit for this, and the Force breathed a sigh of relief. Another case solved. But was it? No one (bar the perpetrators) had the faintest idea who had initiated it, nor knew why. Nobody, bar the victims, presumably, seemed to harbour the faintest interest in finding who the perpetrators were. Nobody, except Jeremiah Minahan, that is.

  ‘Miss Adler,’ he said, ‘I think we should look into this more closely, for I am convinced that if we manage to shed light upon this affair, we’d be more likely to put a nail in the coffin of corruption.’ Irene readily agreed and promised to help him with the case of the Eye-gouger.

  Holmes and Adler had kept to the rather endearing tradition of meeting for breakfast at least once a month, usually on a Thursday. Which is probably why many people have concluded that there was some romantic attachment between the pair. Now, there is no record of as much as a brotherly hug between the two of them being witnessed, whilst they were crossing over to the antipodes, nor when they spent a good few months in Hunter’s Hill in close proximity, so the reader can draw his or her own conclusion. The only verifiable fact was that they enjoyed talking to each other, as they judged that no one else understood them properly. Shortly after the second gouging, the pair met.

  ‘We need to pierce the mystery of the Cremorne Gardens incidents,’ Irene said after she had allowed the sip of mocha to linger on the back of her tongue before passing it through her throat. As epicurean a sensation as any she knew. He said nothing, but the expression in his eyes asked, Why? Irene had no clear reason either, but she knew that she had to do it.

  ‘What does the Irishman say?’ The hostility between the two men was only superficial, but it was mutual. Irene told him that Minahan believed that the answer to the question lay in the domain of Mrs Jeffries, her bordellos and the gambling dens associated with them. Holmes suddenly looked at Irene intently.

  ‘One thing I have found is that people on the same side of a divide, working for the same cause, are often suspicious of the intent or methods of each other. They are usually aware of what the other fellow is doing, and when one of their numbers pulls off a deal, it often causes jealousies.’ Is he talking about us? The pure-hearted Minahan? ‘I would begin,’ pursued Holmes, ‘by talking to this bunch of, eh, I think they’re called placeurs or to call a spade a pander, pimps. Although Holmes avoided wit and repartee, this was not the first time that Irene had witnessed a sparkling instance of wordplay from him. Or am I being old-fashioned? He muttered under his breath. They might cast some light on why Crablick met his fate.’ It was clear that Holmes would be willing to listen to any evidence she would bring to him afterwards, but he was not ready to put his fingers in the dough.

  Irene sent word to Minahan, and they met in the Cremorne next day in the afternoon. He was not the in the mould of the stereotype of the effusive Irishman. He was a man of few words, and could be suspected to have little or no sense of fun or humour (like Holmes). Irene had found that there was a big difference between the two senses. Many people had merriness in their veins and would laugh at the slightest excuse, but had no head for irony or double entendre, and were taken aback by some witty remark. The opposite was also true: some folks could make a pointed pun from nothing, but rarely indulged in mirth. This digression was only to tell the reader that Minahan, again like the man from Baker Street, did have a talent for punning, although he did not often use it. Irene greatly admired his dedication to whatever he had embarked upon.

  ‘I’ll take you to meet some members of my Rogues Gallery some day,’ he said, adding almost under his breath, ‘although I’d as lief see them hanged from a lamp post than in an Art Gallery.’ Irene would wait a long time for a comparable remark. He explained that Mary Watts proudly defined herself as Mrs Jeffries’ secretary, and was indeed her right-hand woman. She is only an entremetteuse, he explained, but she loves to give herself airs. She insisted that I treat her to a genteel tea-shop.

  They had walked to the Chantilly, on the Kensington High Street, a well-appointed French patisserie patronised by the ladies of the area.

  Everything about Mary Watts revealed how much she valued excess. First she was massive and moved in the most comical manner, swaying to the other side the moment she lifted one foot. Her cheeks were painted with a garish rouge, and the lipstick she used was of the pink you only saw on the continent, or on stage. She wore colourful swirling skirts which went down to her ankles. Her blouse was pink silk and it was covered by the most gaudy waistcoat one could imagine, a patchwork of small squares of different colours of the rainbow.

  ‘I see, you’re admiring me waistcoat, Mr Lernière,’ she said when she caught Irene looking at it as they were being introduced. ‘Made it mysel. What am I sayin’, I meantersay, desoigned and mide it mysel. With the ’elp of my young ladies, of course.’

  The moment they had sat down, all the eyes available in the tearoom were turned to them. Irene could not catch the
drift of what the refined ladies were saying to each other in far from hushed tones, not because they were taking special care to express their revulsion discreetly, but for the contrary reason that they were purposely talking in loud stage whispers which by the time they reached her ears had experienced a metamorphosis which made them sound like Latin being recited by Sanskrit scholars. But inured in the art of deductive logic, she had a pretty clear idea of the sentiments being expressed.

  ‘Minahan,’ she said suddenly, eyeing Lernière suggestively, and not attempting to stop the curious ladies from learning the gist of what she aimed to say. ‘Now I have finally understood why you never availed yourself of the many opportunities that I have offered you to spend a little time making my lovely young ladies happy.’ Jeremiah was obviously uncomfortable, for he was blinking at a very rapid rate.

  ‘W-w’what do you mean, Mary Watts. I’m begging you to watch what you’re saying.’ She laughed. More like cackled.

  ‘All these years,’ she said, looking more pointedly at Irene in her fashionable Dai lernière attire, ‘I never suspected that like our esteemed Mr Wilde you, eh-’

  ‘Stop it,’ said Minahan in a louder voice than he intended. ‘Please stop it at once. I’ll have you know that my wife Barbara and I are devoted to each other. Let’s have no more of your malicious insinuations.’ Irene knew that for all the perfection of the suit that Traverson had designed and Bartola sewn for her, it was impossible to hide all her femininity. There was always an effete aura about her which had often led to lubricious looks from Uranian males. Mercifully Mary Watts calmed down, as did Minahan. More calmly he explained that Mr Lernière was also a happily married man and a good friend.

  Anyway, over Darjeeling and profiterolles, Mary Watts spoke very openly about her role in the Mary Jeffries empire, but not too keen to spill professional secrets, she now mercifully tempered her tone as well as her words. Yes, her role was to enrol new recruits to the trade. She clearly saw herself as a benefactress, for these poor waifs were usually starving when she met them. They had no money, no food, no shelter, no warm clothes, and those filthy rich men about town had nothing but money.

  ‘What yours truly is doing, gentlemen, is helping in the redistribution of wealth. They have money and the girls have none. After Watts’ intervention, they have a little less and these strays of mine at least have a smaller hole in their bellies.’

  ‘I didn’t bring you here at great expense to hear you talk about what a philanthropist you are, Watts-’

  ‘Great expense? You think I mean to let you to pay for all this? No, sir, I will foot the bill myself. I’m treating you, I understand that you’re a near pauper.’ Strangely the dismissed officer smiled at this, for he would have well-nigh ruined himself had he let pride rule him.

  ‘You told me you wanted to know about Abélard Cachefesse and Jasper Crablick. I can tell you what I know.’

  She began by explaining that King Leopold of the Belgians was Mrs Jeffries most important client. Although he was an habitué of the maisons closes of Brussels and Ostend, for some reason he liked English pussy, begging your pardon. Specially that of the very young. As little as ten or eleven. She, Watts, never had an education, and the priests hated her family, so she never wasted time on the rights and wrongs of the matter. She earned a good living by doing the bidding of the esteemed Mrs Jeffries, and she aimed to serve her to the best of her ability. She was like a soldier on the battlefield. They followed orders and victory was theirs. His Majesty of the Belgians demanded a constant supply of wenches from Mrs Jeffries, and she delegated “your ’umble servant” to deliver.

  What did she know of Crablick and Cachefesse? Minahan asked. I’ll give you one example, Mary Watts said happily. Bear with me and I’ll spell it out for you. ‘Doggedly,’ ventured the Irishman.

  ______

  She was in Cremorne Gardens, which she visited regularly for scouting purposes. She loved the Coffee House, as darling Minahan knew, and was enjoying a cup of mocha.

  ‘The mocha, Minahan, is an excellent metaphor for what I do. Oh yes, I sure know what metaphor means, I do. You see I mix with a better class of people. In Church Street. It’s bitter and sweet at the same time.’

  Obviously, being a gourmet, she didn’t see why she should have deprived herself of the good things of life. Her friends attributed her sweet nature to the number of cakes that she ate.

  ‘Admit it, I do have a sweet nature, don’t I?’ Minahan tut tutted, but smiled.

  ‘When through the window I espied a mother and daughter pacing up and down hesitantly, I knew that there were two reasons why girls with or without their mothers haunted the Gardens.’ Many poor people had dirty, mouldy and insalubrious lodgings, she explained with genuine sympathy, and the Gardens were a godsend for them when they needed a change from the squalor they were condemned to live in. These same folks, unable to eat, often paraded themselves in the place, with the purpose of getting some alms, but failing that, earning a shilling or two, by satisfying the lust of men. If you have a daughter, Minahan, don’t let her look at what happens behind some great oak as soon as it gets dark.

  ‘That’s what God created oaks for,’ she chuckled.

  ‘I’ll enjoin you not to blaspheme, Mary Watts,’ the Irishman said wearily.

  Excellent fishing grounds them gardens, Mary Watts proclaimed happily. She left the Coffee House and followed mother and daughter, and when she drew to their level, she began engaging them in conversation. Being practised in her trade, she knew exactly how to cast her net. Her usual gambit was a remark about the weather. At some point she pinched the girl on the cheeks and remarked, ‘What a lovely little thing, if only she had some more flesh on those cheeks.’ This was followed by an invitation to the Coffee House, where she treated Mother and Daughter to a pot of tea and muffins, which they devoured indecorously.

  ‘What’s your name Sweetie?’ she asked, rubbing the fingers of her closed hand on the cheeks of the little girl.

  ‘Adelene, ma’am.’

  ‘And how old is Adelene?’ She thought eight might have been the answer, although she would be on the tall side.

  ‘Eleven,’ the Mother replied.

  Mary Watts became thoughtful, and a sad expression which may not have been entirely counterfeit took possession of her face.

  ‘I take it you are unable to put two meals a day on the table for yourselves...’ she said, meaning it.

  ‘Often not even one, Ma’am,’ said the Mother in a strident voice, as if she was rebuking Watts for this sad state of affairs. Mary was thoughtful for a while, then peering at the older woman, she whispered, ‘I might find a position for sweet li’l Adelene … as a seamstress. The Mother did not spring up in alarm, although seamstress was a loaded word. ‘Yes, we’d like that very much, she’ll do anything.’ Anything? They exchanged information about addresses, and Mary ended up with Adelene in tow and five pounds the poorer. ‘Now don’t go spending it all on the devil drink,’ she admonished. It is not known whether this instruction was heeded or not.

  Adelene cried all the way to Church Street where Mrs Jeffries herself greeted her and gave her a hug, calling her a sweet little darling. She was given a plate of cakes and invited to finish it off, which she was unable to do. Phoebe was then told to take her to the bathroom and give her a good scrub. Jeffries had a room full of colourful dresses intended for her charges, and Adelene was given a choice. For someone who went round in one dirt-coloured and tattered cotton dress all year round, it was like Christmas. She opened wide her eyes and her little body shook with anticipation as she beheld the five gowns, each one more appealing than the other laid out on the bed. She wished she could put them on all at once. Jeffries even offered her a nice little blue silk bonnet with a gold pompom. The two Marys consulted, and it was decided that Watts would take Adelene for a stroll in Chelsea. She nearly fainted with joy when Jeffries offered her a parasol with all the colours of the rainbow.

  They aimed for the Embankment an
d walked to Battersea Bridge, where Watts bought the already replete young thing an ice-cream. It was quite comical how she nearly spat it out, when the cold delicacy hit her tongue. Promenaders on the riverside admired what they thought were a Mother and Daughter, and Adelene had never felt prouder in her life. But apprehension began to creep in as she started wondering where her mother was, and whether she would see her again. Only when Watts declared her intention of hiring a hansom for the return home was she able to shake off her anxiety.

  For a whole week, everybody treated her like a long lost daughter of the house. The older women never stopped telling her how pretty she was. Fit for a king, everybody kept repeating. However, innocent as she was of the ways of the world, she could not help being alarmed by the toing and froing of the numerous cackling flappers with an excess of rouge on their faces and all dressed in colourful blouses.

  ______

  In the ensuing three months, she was fed like a turkey before Christmas. Indeed as Yuletide was approaching, she had gathered that something was being planned for her. She was used to being told that she was a dish fit for a king, but had no idea that this was meant literally. King Leopold of the Belgians regularly moored his yacht Alberta on the Thames near Battersea Bridge about once every four or five weeks. Ostend was not big enough for him. The man lived for fun. His many friends among royalty and the nobility were invited to orgies on board. Naughty Bertie was almost always a guest. Mrs Jeffries was handsomely paid to provide young people of both sexes for the occasion. Sallecartes had intimated to Jeffries some time ago that the King had expressed the wish to have a pre-teen virgin for his delectation this coming Christmas to celebrate his sixtieth birthday, and it can now be revealed that young Adelene was going to be served to him.