Mary Jeffries had summoned Abélard Cachefesse and told her that the fruit had been picked, ripened at home, and was ready for delivery to the gourmet client. The king’s Master Taster Frederick Schultz will use his expertise, but without biting into it, to certify its acceptability, take delivery at the mooring of the Alberta, and if he approves of the product, which he indubitably will, he will hand over a fee of fifty sovereigns to him. You will treat her like your own daughter, so as not to attract attention to yourself, she told him. When the day came, everybody in the household made a big fuss of the young girl, helped dress her in specially made fineries, and when Cachefesse turned up in the morning, she was entrusted unto his care, furnished with a false birth certificate bought at Somerset House for five shillings. That was the last they saw of young Adelene. That, swore Mary Watts, was exactly as she remembered everything. Next thing they heard was that someone they knew as a close associate of the Belgian placeur was found more dead than alive in the Cremorne. Of course in the business they were in, news of everything that happened in London reached them sooner or later.
‘God’s truth, Minahan, I’ll tell you not just the what, but the where and the how we found out.’
Abélard Cachefesse had a maid who unbeknownst to her employer, did a few shifts at Church Street, and she got talking to Mary Jeffries. She it was who revealed that Cachefesse had jumped in his hansom cab the moment he heard about the accident and had scraped up the dying man from the ground. He had ferried him to Knightsbridge and without him, the poor fellow would be looking after that great whore-house in the sky.
‘And what is the name of that hussy?’ asked Minahan.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Mrs Watts, as if stumped. ‘Not a single female person of my acquaintance,’ she said, ‘would not respond to the title of hussy, Inspector. Who can you mean?’
‘Cachefesse’s maid who moonlights with you … hussies.’
‘Oh no, I couldn’t tell you that, she’ll get into trouble and so would I.’
‘Your name will be kept out of it,’ promised the Irishman, ‘and when the day comes, and to be sure it will, when you stand trial for your multifarious illegal activities, I will put in a word for you, Mary Watts.’
‘Too kind, I’m sure,’ said the entremetteuse with a little curtsey. ‘The name she uses in Church Street is Mimi, but I believe she was baptised Emilia.’
‘Whether my intervention will make the blindest bit of difference or not, I guarantee not.’ Watts inelegantly pulled out her tongue at him.
______
Irene who loved sailing close to the wind, decided to book a session with Mimi. She had often successfully operated as Count Otto Von Klapisberg, and had appropriate accoutrements for that role. In the past she had turned the count into an effete man about town, possibly with Uranian tendencies, but there was nothing to say that such men were immune to the charms of what the madam had to offer.
Once closeted with the part-timer, she indicated that she was in no hurry to get started. I want to look at you, you are so beautiful, she said, and I want to talk to you. Mimi cackled with laughter. You’re a rum one, you are, you Frenchies! But you’s payin’ so hoo am I to gainsay you, eh? Shall I take off my blouse so you can admire my titties? Otto smiled and shrugging said, Why not? With a seductive smile, she unbuttoned her blouse and her frilly lilac-coloured Made in Paris soutien-gorge and revealed to the not unappreciative pseudo-client an alluring pair of mammaries. You can feel them, go on, the temptress suggested, but Irene chose not to avail herself of the offer.
‘Am I right that you work in Knightsbridge?’ Irene said quietly looking at the ceiling. Mimi jumped in alarm, but Irene assured her that her secret was safe with her.
‘Aye, at Monsieur Cachefesse. ’E’s a businessman, I fink ’e calls hisself an entrepree-nure,’ she said negligently.
‘You and I know what business he’s in,’ said Irene, and Mimi shrugged. ‘’E pays good wages and I ask no questions.’
‘I’m going to ask you a few questions,’ said Irene, pressing a gold sovereign into Mimi’s hand and her face brightened up, but she was not ready to let go.
‘I- I- I fought you’d come for a little spooning,’ she said looking away. ‘I am quite good.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said the visitor, ‘but I have some questions.’ And she produced another sovereign, flicking it up and catching it on the upturned palm of her left hand. Heads you win and tails I lose. Mimi opened wide her eyes. ‘I love them sovereigns.’
‘It’s for you to keep,’ promised Irene. ‘And I give you my word as a gentleman that whatever you tell me will be our little secret. And who knows? I might be prevailed upon to give a third gold coin.’
Thus it was that Miss Adler gathered the crucial evidence she was looking for.
It was about a week earlier that Mr Cachefesse had to go to Belgium to visit his dying mother, and he had asked his trusted lieutenant Mr Carbolic to deliver a parcel to the Alberta which was moored at Battersea Bridge. When he came back from Belgium, the first thing he asked was if Jasper had called. When he heard that he had not, he flew into a right temper. That fils de pute that I ’ave treated like my own son, rescued from the gutter, he’s absconded with my fifty sovereigns. But ’e won’t get away with it. I’ll make ’im live to regret that ’e eveur crossed Cachefesse.
In the afternoon, Ironglove turned up. Emilia knew that he was some kind of enforcer for Cachefesse and other placeurs. Besides, unbeknownst to Cachefesse, he regularly visited her in Church Street. She did not like him because after a session with him, she always ended up with bruises on her body, not that the ex-boxer inflicted them wilfully. As she loved listening behind doors, she heard Cachefesse give him instructions to find Jasper Crablick. Try the gambling places in Wellington Street, try the Gardens, he loves going there to eat ice creams and watch jugglers. Ask him if he still has my money. He won’t obviously, he’d have gambled it all away.
‘Now, listen carefully, I want you to brek ’is little fingeur. Just a few punches on the ’ead. Nuthing else. All I want is to titch ’im a lesson he will neveur forget. You know Ironglove, I ’ate violence, but I nid to protect my assets.’
‘Right,’ grunted the ex-boxer, ‘trust me.’
‘I don’t want to bore you Sweetheart, but to cut a long story short, early next day someone I have never met came knocking at the door in a panic. I understood that something very bad had happened to Jasper. Cachefesse was in all states. He was shouting, Merde alors! never told the bastard to gouge his eye out. And he rushed out of the house like it had caught fire, and came back with the smitten boy just before midday.’ Emilia heard him say comforting words to the victim and promised him that he would do what was necessary to punish Ironglove.
‘I didn’t tell him to do this, Jasper dear boy, I swear. What’s money to me?’
‘To cut a long story short, your worship, he sent for not two or three, but four heavies with instructions to forcibly take Ironglove to Cremorne, beat him to a pulp, break his little finger and knock his left eye out of its socket.’ Thus it was, according to the moonlighting prostitute, that the second fellow suffered his dire fate and was picked up at Cremorne.
‘I bet that next time, we will not pick up one but four victims of eye-gouging,’ she reflected. By now it had become apparent to her that the foreign gentleman was not going to demand what he had paid for, and she was quite pleased.
Irene thought that it was only fair to tell Minahan the result of her unconventional enquiry. And who’s going to punish Cachefesse? The Irishman growled.
Irene then told Holmes, and the latter expressed the belief (and hope) that there would be no more eye-gouging. But in this, he was wrong, for a week later, another victim was found moaning with one eye hanging out of its socket in exactly the same manner as in the two previous cases. The victim this time was none other than Abélard Cachefesse himself.
When Holmes read about this in Reynolds’ News, he was impatient for his next
meeting with Irene. They had barely sat down to their regular fare of mocha and croissants when he said to her, ‘Miss Adler, I am going to do my level best to find who did this.’ He was surprised when his companion looked at him questioningly, and then asked, What was the point? The Belgian had initiated the first two incidents, and he had now met with a similar fate, hadn’t the events gone full circle? On the contrary, countered the detective, this case is much more interesting. We know who ordered the first two attacks and the reason, but one would have thought that the Belgian placeur was too powerful to be touched. Wouldn’t it be interesting if it was the beginning of a war between the villains of London? He rubbed his hands in glee as he said this. Wouldn’t London benefit if the toxins in the mix neutralised each other as acids and alkalis do in a titration, ending up with harmless NaCl? He was always the chemist, our Sherlock, Irene thought.
______
He checked that there was no urgent case pending and made up his mind that he would devote the whole week to solving the near fatal assault on Cachefesse. More, if it was necessary, but he thought that a couple of days might be all he would need. He thought that the first thing he should do would be to talk to the victim. He called at the Knightsbridge apartment and rang the bell. He was impressed by the grandeur of the building. It doubtless housed the very rich, bankers, merchants and the criminal class. The door was opened by Mimi, in her less scandalous incarnation as maid. He gave his name and said he wanted to ask the sick man a few questions about his misadventure, and was ushered into his bedroom.
‘Professor Mallalieu said that Monsieur Cachefesse must not tire himself,’ said Emilia, who was surprisingly protective of her employer, and Holmes promised that he would leave the moment he noticed any sign of fatigue.
‘Why Monsieur Olmès, I’ve ’erd so much about you. Be seated.’ The visitor pulled out a chair close to the bed and sat down. The smitten man sounded surprisingly serene.
‘I’ll be quick so I can leave you in peace. I’ve been told the circumstances of your attack. You were dragged into the Cremorne Gardens by a very tall and well-built man, brutally beaten and left for dead near the Pagoda? Right?’ Cachefesse nodded weakly.
‘How did he get you inside the Gardens?’
‘Can you ask Emilia to bring me a glass of water, please,’ he murmured. Sherlock went looking for the maid, but did not need to go far, as he found her right behind the door.
‘I wasn’t eavesdropping, sir, honest. I knew the master would need something, and I wanted to do my duty.’
‘Quite, he needs a glass of water.’
‘You see,’ she said and rushed to oblige.
When the Belgian had had a sip, he asked Holmes to help hoist him up a couple of inches.
‘Well, Monsieur Olmès, ’e creeped be’ind me as I was promenading along the riverbank, put a handkerchief soaked in ether on my nose and I evanouished. I knew of being dragged, and found myself in the Cremorne. ’E was very tall and very big. I am going to do unto you what you ’ave done to others, you godless man.’
‘Describe his accent, anything special?’
‘ ’E was a stranger …’ Already a hypothesis was sprouting in Mr Holmes’ fertile imagination, but as he would say, any conjecture not backed by evidence was a blot on the landscape of the Science of Deduction. He was, however, satisfied that his theory was steeped in a few interesting facts. The attacker was foreign, he was huge, and had called his victim godless.
‘Do you have any idea who he might be, and what could have been his motives?’ Cachefesse seemed to have fallen asleep, but he opened his eyes wearily.
‘Hoo ee might be? Non Monsieur Olmès. Why ee attacked me? Again no idea. I know zat my occupation is of a dubious nature to zose hoo do not understand it, but I fill it with professionalism.’
‘Come off it Monsieur Cachefesse, please do not make speeches, just answer the question.’
‘Well, I ave no idea why.’
‘Thank you. Would you be so kind as to repeat what the man said to you.’
‘I am going to do unto you what you ’ave done to others, you godless man.’
‘I think I have an idea of who the villain is,’ Holmes began.
‘Non, Monsieur Olmès, you will put my life in danger. Please leave him alone.’
‘So, you know who he is then?’ Cachefesse seemed upset and denied this vehemently, but the detective was convinced that he knew more than what he was saying.
‘I’ll be back with more evidence,’ said Holmes as he left. He had three reasons for suspecting Minahan.
______
‘Ah, Moynahan,’ Holmes greeted the Irishman as he opened the door of his Ulverdale Road house.
‘Minahan,’ he corrected. It was the fact that Holmes always got his name mixed up that instigated the notion in Jeremiah Minahan that the man from Baker Street looked down upon him. ‘But do come in, Mr Holmes.’ His reticence did not preclude a great admiration for the man who was generally accepted as the greatest living detective.
‘Sorry Minahan, I’m always getting your name mixed up.’ The ex-inspector smiled and showed his visitor to a chair. Holmes had a ready-made story.
‘Mr Stead wants to do a story about you, and has been talking about this to me. I suggested that a half-page photograph of you might be of great interest to the readership of The Pall Mall Gazette.’ This had in fact been mooted some time in the past. The upshot was that the two men found themselves in the studio of Julia Margaret Cameron in Soho within the hour. The formidable Miss Cameron was indubitably the most talented portrait photographer in the country, and well she knew it. Holmes wished that she would take the photograph of the suspect promptly, but found that Miss Cameron was one of those irritating perfectionists who took an hour to get the angle of the head right. Still the operation was carried out and she promised that she would stay up all night if necessary but would make sure the result would be ready in the morning. Holmes admitted to himself that he had learnt one or two techniques from the magician of the single-eye.
Next day when he called on Cachefesse again, this time with the very clear photograph of Jeremiah, the placeur burst out laughing the moment he took a look.
‘But that’s Inspecteur Minahan,’ he said.
‘Yes, of course. Can you identify him as your attacker?’ The pimp seemed about to shake his head, but suddenly a smile lit his face, and he nodded silently.
‘Yes, it was im.’ Sherlock was delighted that he had solved the conundrum. What had given the game away, he explained, was a combination of three things, each one on its own insignificant, but taken together, the whole was considerably bigger than the sum of the three parts: The fact that the assaulter was a giant of a man. That he spoke with a foreign accent. The sentence which he had made Cachefesse repeat, to wit, ‘I am going to do unto you what you ’ave done to others, you godless man.’ He knew that Minahan was motivated by his Christian faith. Must talk to Miss Adler before taking a decision about what to do, Holmes thought.
He took a hansom to Water Lane and Armande squealed with delight when she opened the door to him.
‘Monsieur Olmès, what a pleasure to see you here. It must ave been a hole ear last time we ad the honour. You come at the right time, because as we spik, a tray of the apple tart you love so much is in the oven ready to be rescued... and it’s sprinkled with cannel, which you said you love. Sorry, it’s persimmon in English, isn’t it? I always get them mixed-up.’
‘You mean cinnamon, dear Miss le Solliec.’
Sherlock said he certainly timed his visit with great precision, and looked forward to sampling the culinary masterpiece after he had talked to Miss Adler. Armande ushered him in the grand salon and gently knocked on Irene’s door.
‘Mr Holmes,’ said Irene the moment she came into the grand salon, ‘I take it you’ve been true to your word and have solved the mystery.’ Holmes smiled happily.
‘But I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong.’ The man from Baker Street frowned. No, he h
ad worked it out, and Cachefesse had confirmed the result when he had showed him a photograph.
‘But you can’t have shown him a photograph of the right person. He does everything in his power to avoid being photographed. His enemies are looking for him.’
‘But I took him to Miss Cameron’s studio in the Soho myself.’ Irene laughed.
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Jeremiah Moynahan of course.’ Miss Adler burst out laughing on hearing this.
‘But it was not Minahan, Mr Holmes. Whatever gave you the idea?’ Holmes explained in great details what led him to his conclusion.
‘You said Cachefesse’s first reaction when you showed him the photograph was to laugh. Tell me, why would he laugh?’ Holmes had indeed been uneasy about that. I am surprised his body reaction did not tell you that he was misleading you. Holmes looked at her intently. You seem so sure that it wasn’t Moynahan, he said, is there a reason for that certainty?
‘Yes,’ said Irene.
‘Are you going to tell me about it?’
‘No,’ said Irene. Sherlock felt a little lump in his throat, reminiscent of the pain he felt when Mum refused him another slice of cake.
‘In that case, I’ll take your word and will not go to Scotland Yard.’ Irene relented.
‘Mr Holmes, I wish I could tell you, but I would be breaking a promise if I did.’ He said nothing but looked at her like a chastised dog and nodded.
______
‘But that Cachefesse is a menace to society,’ said Bartola her voice cracking with indignation.
‘Shouldn’t we be doing somesing about this?’ chipped in Armande. The Club discussed this late into the night, and it was not too difficult to arrive at a decision. Vissarionovich! In the past, he had often acted as the Club’s enforcer. He was a Russian revolutionary who had sought refuge in London awaiting the removal of his cousins the corrupt Romanovs in Moscow. He was as tall as Minahan and built like a heavyweight boxer. Most of all, his fearlessness bordered on recklessness.
He had been tailing Cachefesse for at least half an hour when the Belgian turned into Danvers Street. Information provided by Minahan indicated that he operated a maison close there. A godsend, the Muscovite said to himself. Irene, disguised as Dai Lernière was following from a distance in case he needed help. She followed the two men discreetly. When the Belgian placeur was just outside his maison, he slowed down and fumbled in his pocket, possibly to find his keys. It was then that Vissarionovich pounced on him from behind, the ether-soaked handkerchief at the ready. In a lightning quick movement he overpowered the villain who dutifully passed out. From then on, they were a couple of friends going home after a drunken afternoon, the more sober one helping the other one out. No passer-by gave them more than a passing glance. Irene was following every single action with great interest and considerable pleasure.
Sherlock Holmes Vs Irene Adler: A Duel of Wits (The Irene Adler Series Book 4) Page 11
