Although Irene Adler was a late arrival at the Club, her quickness of mind was immediately recognised, and she easily became the brains of the association. Surprisingly - possibly because she was completely lacking in arrogance - no one took exception at that. She knew herself to be gifted, but she always acted as if she believed that so was everybody else. Her arrival at Water Lane had been chronicled, by herself (see The Case Book of Irene Adler), and devoid of vanity as she is, the book is an unsurprisingly frank account of the cases in which she had been involved.
At one time, she had been trying to make a name for herself on the stage, but although she was no prude, and was not averse to sexual pleasures, she had too much self-respect to contemplate using her charms to further her thespian ambitions. A sine qua non. Her talent was not totally unrecognised, but she got just enough parts to keep the wolf at the door. She had found lodgings at Water Lane, with Armande le Solliec who had a large but slightly dilapidated mansion which she rented out, but only to people she found sympathiques.
A young titled young man Irene had taken to her bed after a show turned out to be a cad who crept out from under the sheets in the middle of the night to steal the only valuable possession she had, an 8 carat blue sapphire cameo brooch which her beloved tenor father had given her mother on their wedding day. Having fortuitously espied the young villain at work, she did nothing, but let him go back to sleep, and the moment he started snoring, she then got up, repossessed her treasure, and took possession of the whole contents of his wallet, filling it with paper after to disguise the larceny.
When she revealed to Armande what she had done, the Frenchwoman screamed with joy, and invited her to meet her circle of intimate friends. The Club des As was already in existence, but mainly as a group which met to eat, drink, and be merry. Obviously they talked and laughed a lot, and loved mocking conventional practices. As iconoclastic republicans, they loved singing God Shave the Queen/ Send Her Censorious/ Snappy and Bilious/ Long to Rain over us/ God Shave the Queen. This was strange in view of Algernon Lord Clarihoe being something like 208th in the royal line.
All this was to change after she was invited to the Wednesday session which followed her little adventure. Initially it was to be for the one evening, but everybody was quite taken by her, and her status changed spontaneously. After listening to her tale, a long discussion ensued, which laid the foundations of the redefined Club. It was the Bishop who asked, ‘Anybody thinks that what she did was reprehensible?’ Everybody loudly affirmed that it was nothing of the sort. ‘Had she not done this, I wouldn’t want to know her.’ That was Bartola. Armande followed this with ‘We should take a lif from eur book.’ Vissarionovich, who had drunk a full bottle of vodka suggested that talking was not enough. ‘Ve need to show that ve’re not just full of gash, da, ve need to ect.’
A chorus of ‘Hear! Hear!’ greeted this. Anatole said that they needed to choose a deadline, otherwise it was all talk.
‘Four weeks from now,’ proposed Algie. The target had to be picked carefully, and then the means of execution planned in every detail.
Who were these people? Irene Adler herself first. She was a struggling actress, the daughter of the most promising young Viennese baritone of his age, who disagreeing with the warlike stance of the rulers of her country had migrated to London. Just as his career was beginning to pick up, he died suddenly, of what was later thought to be an aneurism. His daughter had aimed to follow in her beloved father’s operatic footsteps, but although her voice was judged to have excellent potential, she ended up as a jobbing stage actress. Armande, once a fan dancer in the Soho, was the widow of an honest wood merchant who died a few months after they were wed and left her the house in Water Lane, which provided her with her main source of income. Algie, Lord Clarihoe had an on-and-off relationship with his father, Lord Bickeringstone on account of his being an Uranian, or an invert. He rented a room in Water Lane from time to time, and had found in Armande a very understanding friend, a sister-substitute. The Bishop had only really been a parish priest, but after reading that pernicious book On the Origin of Species, he lost his faith in an omnipotent, omniscient, beneficent God. He now earned his living teaching latin three days a week in a private school in Putney. Hugh Probert had been an actor, and was now fighting against alcoholism. Anatole Frunk used to be a banker in Geneva, but he was fed up with the skulduggery that he had witnessed in the world of finance. Bartola had been wrongly accused of poisoning her husband but luckily the jury had acquitted her of all charges. Coleridge was a negro American singer of great talent who had come to London to try his fortune. Sadly, unsuccessfully. The revolutionary Vissarionovich was a Romanov, and was waiting for his cousin to be forcibly ejected from the Russian throne before going back to Muscovy. Traverson was a French artist who hoped that London would be more responsive to his talent.
There was never any swearing in, no cutting of arms and intermingling of blood, but it turned out that the group could not be faulted on loyalty and devotion. Incredibly, in all its history there is not a single instance of doubt occurring over a member’s action or behaviour. ‘I’ll march to the Guillotine ed igh, if eet is ze price for refusing to betray any one of you,’ proclaimed Armande. Pompous words, yes, but hollow, definitely not!
William Thomas Stead, the editor of The Pall Mall Gazette, was not a member of the Club, since essentially, it was for people with plenty of leisure time. No one in the association was in full-time employment. Stead was the sort of fellow who was only able to sleep four hours every night. He worked on his admirable paper up to sixteen hours a day. He was a campaigning journalist, who, when most of his colleagues found it easier to give their backing to the establishment rather than be a thorn in its flesh, prided himself that his favourite activity was boat-rocking. It was as a direct consequence of his investigation of child prostitution in London that the law which raised the age of consent from 13 to 16 was passed. He would have fitted nicely with the Water Lane crowd if time was an elastic commodity. He was aware of the existence of the group, and he happened to be a childhood friend of Algie’s. When the latter wanted help on a project of dubious legality, he often approached the editor, who usually delivered the goods, no question asked. W.T., as he was known to his few intimate friends, knew Clarihoe to be a man of honour, so he never felt any need to ask.
The Gazette had been running a detailed analysis of the questionable practices of the Empire builders, and Cecil Rhodes had come in its sights. The Club regularly read Mr Stead’s writings and greatly admired them. They usually found themselves sharing his views on most things. As egalitarians, they had no truck with the arrogance of the white man who assumed a near divine right to go into a black man’s country and take possession of his land and resources and enslaving the population. The article in the Gazette had spelled out in great details how the British government and its representatives, people like Cecil Rhodes, had benefited from the spoliation of Southern Africa, at the expense of the natives.
‘Can we do anything to damage De Beers?’ asked Coleridge. As a descendant of slaves, he felt the exploitation of the black races very personally. After a heated discussion, they conceded that it would take considerably more than a small group of well-meaning iconoclasts to inflict no more than a pinprick on what was probably one of the biggest and richest companies in the world, which further benefited from the backing of the mighty British Empire, but they would not let that stop them.
‘Absolument, we’re not just going to cross our arms and tell zem to kip on plundering the black man, are we?’
‘No,’ said Probert forcefully, ‘we need to carry out an action, even a symbolic one.’
‘Parading Mr Rhodes’ head on a pike might be an excellent symbol,’ snapped the Russian Vissarionovich. Someone mentioned the name of Cophrussi of Hatton Gardens, and Algie happened to have the information about how they bypassed the usual channels and received uncut diamonds from Kimberley from their cousins who were residents there, at a massive
discount.
‘Zen, we nid to pay a visit to the Cophrussi Frères some night.’
‘No,’ said Irene, ‘we need to visit them in broad daylight.’ Everybody looked at her, and she elaborated the outlines of a plan which had spontaneously sprouted in her fertile mind. She often mused about spontaneity. If she needed an idea and it had not materialised within minutes, experience had taught her that what she would end up with a less than perfect model. Her best ideas appeared, albeit in a primitive form, within minutes of her seeking them.
Next day, Algie paid a visit to W.T. However busy the journalist was, he always made time for Algie.
‘You know how I welcome your visit, Algie,’ W.T. said gruffly, ‘but that doesn’t mean that I am unaware of the fact that you only pop in when you have a favour to ask.’
‘Guilty as charged, your honour.’
‘Spill the beans my dear fellow.’
‘It’s your fault really, W.T. Had you not aimed your big guns at Mr Rhodes and his hunting dogs, my friends and I would not have dreamt of striking a blow for the victims they leave behind in their wake.’
‘And in what way can I help you achieve that my dear fellow? Nothing too illegal, I hope.’
‘Only slightly, W.T., but one hundred percent morally sound.’
‘In that case, your request is granted. Obviously I wouldn’t want to know the details. Like all good cowards I want deniability. Just tell me-’
‘I would like to print some misinformation in the Gazette.’
‘Ah, no! I have to draw a line here. We pride ourselves that we do not disseminate untruths.’
‘Dissemination is the wrong word for what we have in mind. All we want is to include one item of misinformation in just one copy of your esteemed rag, destined for just one of your subscribers. You wouldn’t call that dissemination?’
‘As you know Algie, I am a simple printer of newspapers, I do not have your sophistication or brainpower. Explain what you want to do, without incriminating yourself.’
‘My target is Ephraïm Cophrussi.’
‘Of Hatton Gardens?’
‘No less.’
‘A right villain. Yes, I think I’m warming to your idea.’
‘I want to include an item of false news in just one copy of your newspapers which I will make sure will only be delivered to him. None of the others will be tampered with.’
‘Algie, your idea is so outrageous that I cannot resist it. Would you need assistance?’
‘I’m not any good with the technicalities.’
‘My people here are completely trustworthy, but I can’t guarantee that when they’re having a pint in their locals they won’t blabber. So, I will help you myself.’
The Cophrussi brothers having acquired the two smaller shops on either side of them had annexed them to create a more spacious and airy outlet. They had tastefully redecorated it, hung expensive artwork on the walls, replaced the floor by first making a stone base to make it tunnel-proof, and then covering it with thick oak planks which were regularly polished and varnished. It now had waiting areas with plush armchairs and marble tables. Vitrines fixed to the walls proudly displayed priceless antique jewellery from Babylon and Timbuktu. They prided themselves that no business premises in London could boast of more luxurious and hygienic toilet facilities, in view of the fact that their clientèle often consisted of frail and elderly duchesses and countesses.
Early on Monday, Traverson and Irene worked on Algie, applying make-up on his face, subtly smoothing out a wrinkle or two and giving him a light tan. Armande and Bartola mercilessly wrapped a cotton sheet round his ample waist to give him that slender look. He even shaved off his jet black twirling whispers to thoroughly change his appearance. His own mother would have failed to recognise him. Likewise Irene changed her appearance, but in her case, by adding layers of cotton for just the exact opposite reason, to make her look like an over-fed, over-indulgent dowager without too much taste.
Anatole Frunk who had an Eastman Interchangeable View as his most prized possession, seated them in the garden and snapped their likenesses on celluloid. He developed and printed them, and everybody clapped. Algie then took a cab and made for W.T.Stead’s office in Shoe Lane, with the photographs in a small satchel. He briefly exposed to W.T. what he was hoping to do, and the feared editor smiled. ‘Leave this with me, I’ll get it transferred onto a cliché – a printing plate to you- and we’ll attend to your skulduggery tomorrow.’ He winked as he said this, which reassured Clarihoe, since he knew that he was asking a lot from his old friend. As a scrupulous editor, he would have been excused for withholding his help from his mischievous old friend.
That night, Irene, the Bishop and Algie sat together and composed the following text:
Lord Mountjoy de la Vallée and his widowed mother Lady Mireille, now living in California arrived at Southampton on Monday on the RMS Nova Scotia. His lordship told our reporter that he hopes to stay in the land of his birth for three months, to settle some affairs connected with his lands and to stock himself with the fine gourmet products he was sorry to say, were unavailable in California. When his lordship was asked whether he had come back with the intention of finally putting an end to his state of bachelorhood, he said, “No Comment,” but smiled enigmatically. We will keep our eyes open and our ears close to the ground. Her ladyship laughed and said that if her son went back to the United Stated of America still single, she should not be blamed. He indicated that Lady Mireille hoped to visit the Maisons de Haute Couture of Paris, as there were at least two society weddings in the offing stateside. Our reporter asked him to confirm that he was now worth a million pounds but he would neither confirm nor deny this. Would her ladyship be shopping for diamonds? Mother does indeed have a fondness for diamonds, but his lordship said that her ladyship was an adult and could do as she wished with her fortune.
Algie was going to meet Stead at the office of the Pall Mall Gazette after midnight when the personnel would have put the edition to bed. He marvelled at W.T.’s capacity for work. As he was very hands-on, he always wore working clothes. In any case, he had explained once, you feel much more comfortable in them. He knew that sometimes, when he was working on a scoop, the man went without sleep for days on end and did not seem any the worse for wear. Next morning’s edition was ready and thousands of copies were stacked awaiting early morning delivery. W.T. had put aside three copies for doctoring, one for Algie to keep, one for himself and the third one for his friend to dispose of as he had planned. The editor said that the insertion was going to be done manually. Page 2 was chosen as it had an article and an advertisement which could be easily removed to make way seamlessly for the photograph and the fifteen or so lines accompanying it.
W.T. rolled his shirt sleeves and in a matter of minutes the extraordinary edition of the Gazette was ready. They sat down in the office, and shared a small tot of malt.
‘My one luxury of the day,’ the campaigning journalist muttered, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. ‘One small whisky. Never a second one after.’ Having emptied his glass, he locked one of the doctored papers in his safe and gave the two others to Algie who would keep one for the Club, and entrust Bartola’s clever nephew Teddy to deliver it to their intended victim.
When he saw the picture in the Gazette, Ephraïm Cophrussi showed it to his nephew Elias.
‘Since they have declared their intention of buying jewellery in London, Elias, there’s every chance that their track will lead to Hatton Gardens ... in all likelihood to our humble shop.’
‘Obviously, uncle, we’re the best.’
They were proved right. On Friday morning, Lord Mountjoy de la Vallée and the dowager made an entrance into the luxurious jeweller’s in Hatton Gardens, where young Elias Cophrussi did the honours. Lady Mireille spent fifteen minutes looking at a tourmaline and diamond number, and whispered to her son that she might like to see how she looked. Elias escorted her to a well-lit cubicle with mirrors and she came back expressing do
ubt about it.
‘Her ladyship might be interested in seeing an emerald and diamond piece which only last week a Swiss Count spent half an hour looking at. For all I know he might come back, but although he expressed an interest he did not specifically ask us to reserve it until he made up his mind. So I am at liberty to offer it to you.’ The moment she cast eye on the piece, her ladyship nearly swooned, so stunned was she by its beauty. Elias pressed her to put it on, but the moment she did, according to a plan that they had elaborated, she fainted.
‘Mother has still not completely recovered from the boat trip,’ Lord Mountjoy explained. I reckon it’s the single most expensive item we have in our shop, Elias said. It was a necklace consisting of 17 emeralds of varying sizes, each one ringed by a bodyguard of diamonds, with as its apotheosis, a sixty carat diamond, possibly weighing just under fifteen grams, at its centre. The asking price was fifteen thousand pounds, the sort of money you would require to buy a mews cottage in the most select part of Mayfair. They found it politic to spend time looking at three other comparable pieces, but it was the Emerald/ Diamond one which had arrested their attention. They questioned Cophrussi, and then consulted each other. Lord Mountjoy de la Vallée finally told the young man that his mother was definitely interested in the item, but for form’s sake would like to consult one or two other jewellers first. Would Elias agree to keeping in on hold for one week? This, he explained, would also give Coutts the time to sort out their complicated finances. Your lordship and your ladyship, the young salesman said merrily, in my experience, no one in their right minds buy jewellery without first checking on what’s available. But mother is already ninety percent convinced, Algie said. I’ll put it aside for ten days, the young man offered.
Sherlock Holmes Vs Irene Adler: A Duel of Wits (The Irene Adler Series Book 4) Page 15
