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

by San Cassimally

  Next day opening the window of the airy and sunlit study at Water Lane, Traverson and Irene sat at a table, with paper and coloured pencils, with the aim of producing an exact likeness of the jewel that had come in their sights. They were going to use the technique that they had elaborated for identifying persons of interest by putting together images of various parts of the human face, until a fit was arrived at. After two hours, Irene describing, the Frenchman executing, the woman suggesting modifications, she agreed that the shapes and colours were absolutely right.

  Unsurprisingly the Club believed that business and pleasure were a combination which carried the same appeal as gin and tonic. They took the decision to spend a week in Paris.

  Thomas Cook was very efficient in booking them the tickets from London Victoria to Folkestone, the Channel crossing to Calais and the final trip to Paris Nord for the eight of them. Algie sent a telegram to the patron of the Hotel Ampère (in Rue Ampère) to book rooms for them for a whole week. The cost of travel and accommodation alone came to just over one hundred pounds. Armande sold an antique clock and Anatole’s investment of one pound at 44 to1 on Emerald Prince helped as well. Algie “borrowed” one hundred pounds he found in his father’s safe for other expenses.

  The wait for the tide at Folkestone caused them to miss the connection in Calais, but they were still able to get to Paris in good time. A half hour ride on the slick new Paris Metro took them to the rue Ampère.

  Over the next few days, the Club foraged every single of the two hundred brocanteurs, the antique and pseudo-antique shops, the sordid stalls of the Marché aux Puces of St Ouen, picking a large quantity of kitsch and baubles with childish alacrity. The afternoons they spent walking on the promenades of the Seine, taking boat trips, gorging themselves on French cuisine. Algie knew the cheapest and the best places, where patrons even if they were in rags were welcome, and where gourmet food was served on surfaces without table-cloth. He did not vouch for the hygiene of those gargottes.

  In the evenings, they would all gather in the largest room taken by Irene and the Uranian Lord Clarihoe, and they would spread their finds on the large bed. Traverson declared that a small dove whose emerald colour was stunning, was a valuable Lalique. You can truly find hidden treasures in St Ouen. This has great potential, he mused to himself. He was almost certain that a glass decanter was St Louis crystal. They were absolutely delighted that after three days they had found everything they wanted. The rest of the week was spent visiting the Louvre, climbing the recently opened French marvel, the Eiffel Tower from the top of which one could see the whole of Paris. They went back to London fulfilled and happy.

  They invested in a diamond cutter and Traverson immediately set himself to work, like an alchemist turning coloured glass into precious stones. He said that he operated best alone and was therefore left to his own device. After a week he demanded sodium bicarbonate. To clean the components, he said curtly, and make them shine. When he finally agreed to put the others out of their misery, he emerged from his room, his right hand behind his back with barely a smile and with a flourish he moved this hand in an ark displaying his masterpiece carefully hanging between his fingers. The oohs and aahs of delight were commensurate with the quality of the product and reflected the universal approval and admiration.

  They were now ready for the dislodgement of the article from Hatton Gardens. Bartola, much given to hyperboles and embellishments declared with a serious face that she’d much rather wear Traverson’s piece than the fifteen thousand pound one at Cophrussi’s. Most of the Club agreed that the counterfeit placed side by side with the authentic, they would not be able to tell the difference, without touching it or the use of a magnifying glass.

  Ten days after their last visit to Hatton Gardens, Irene and Algie walked into the Ali Baba’s cave. They informed Elias that their minds were made up, but it would unfortunately take just one more day for the funds to become available. Could Elias consider extending the reserve time by twenty four-hours? The young man blushed and blinked happily and said that this was not a problem at all. Was there anything else he could do to be of service to his lordship and her ladyship? No, they chorused, thank you.

  ‘B-but,’ Lady Mireille stuttered.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, anything at all.’

  ‘I think Mother is impatient … eh … could she put it on just one more time?’ But of course, she could, not the least problem. The young man’s genuine courtesy and kindness made Irene slightly uneasy as she tried to imagine his discomfiture after they learnt the truth.

  The moment she put the necklace on, she swooned most convincingly, having learnt the technique when she was training to become an actress, and having practised this last time. Clarihoe stopped her falling and Elias rushed to help.

  ‘Perhaps she could cool her face,’ suggested Algie. Elias helped him walk her ladyship to the powder room. Algie stopped after a few steps. ‘No doubt you will want mother to divest herself of the necklace first,’ he suggested, not hiding the expression on his face which suggested that he would be deeply disappointed if that was expected. Elias hesitated before hiding his doubt, saying, ‘But of course we wouldn’t want that.’ With a forced laugh he added, ‘We at Cophrussi Brothers pride ourselves on our clientele, which consists of royalty, English as well as European. No, we don’t expect her ladyship to do a Houdini and vanish with the treasure.’ His lordship smiled and congratulated the young man on his grasp of salesmanship.

  Once inside, Irene, quickly unclasped the jewel and committed it into her bag, and carefully put Traverson’s counterfeit round her neck. When she emerged, she seemed completely recovered.

  ‘Keep it safe,’ she urged Elias as she handed it over to him, ‘I don’t want it gone tomorrow when I shall come to claim it.’

  The subterfuge went undetected, even next day when the buyers failed to turn up. Elias hid his disappointment that people with such breeding could change their minds after giving him such hope of a sound sale. Ephraïm caught sight of Traverson’s masterpiece three days later. He did not immediately notice anything untoward, but he was an expert in diamonds and precious stones, and a little je ne sais quoi whispered something to his subconscious. He immediately asked Elias to bring the magnifying glass, but the minute he touched the necklace he knew for sure that they had been the victims of skulduggery. He reported the theft to Scotland Yard, but knew that they would have as much chance of catching the culprits and recuperating the stolen article as of finding diamonds instead of mushrooms in Epping Forest.

  That was when Sherlock Holmes came on the scene. The elder Cophrussi asked him over to Hatton Gardens and offered him twenty guineas to do what the Police had been unable to do. Holmes found him to be a smallish rounded man with a large forehead. He was not sure if the jeweller had a squint or if he manoeuvred his eyes, albeit unconsciously, to produce the effect when he was concentrating.

  The detective wanted to know what Lord de la Vallée and his mother looked like and expressed surprise when he was told that the copy of the Gazette containing their photograph had been mislaid or destroyed. That would certainly have helped, thought the detective, but he formed the opinion that for some reason best known to himself, Ephraïm Cophrussi was hiding the truth. He will sit down by his fireside tonight, and consult his pipe with his feet stretched out in front of the fireplace. He might end up with an explanation. He intimated to Cophrussi his doubts about being able to help him, in the light of having no idea what the perpetrators looked like.

  The pipe not having revealed anything useful, Holmes thought that the white powder he kept in a little locked glass case nesting at the intersection of two walls in his study might foster illumination. Whether the subsequent insight was a result of this or not is not known, but the outcome was a decision to visit W.T.Stead who he knew slightly.

  The campaigning journalist seemed uneasy when Holmes mentioned the photograph of the Hatton Gardens fraudsters being printed in The Gazette. He said that the idea was prep
osterous.

  ‘You may or may not be aware of this, Holmes, but I avoid wasting my column space on trivial nonsense concerning the whereabouts of the idle rich. You have been misled.’

  ‘You mean Cophrussi invented that story? Why would he do that?’

  ‘I could give you any number of reasons, but won’t waste your time in vapid conjectures.’ Holmes had the notion that the editor was also withholding the truth from him. He was known to have made a thorough study of what is known as the body language of people suspected of telling lies. Movement of the hands, head, and even legs, were revelatory, although he knew that they were not infallible. The behaviour of the eyes, however, were usually foolproof. Watching the pupils dilate and contract told you exactly what the state of play was. Unfortunately, his thick-rimmed glasses made it impossible to study the pupils of Stead.

  ‘Could someone have broken into your office -’

  ‘I doubt that very much. Why would they?’

  ‘Is it a possibility, or would you discount it entirely?’ asked Holmes, ‘I mean for whatever reason, could somebody have broken in and tampered with the printing press?’ Stead pursed his lips. After musing to himself and blinking a few hundred times, he nodded slightly.

  ‘It cannot be ruled out, Holmes. I have never feared my competitors breaking into our office to steal our ideas.’ He gave a hollow laugh, ‘Why, old boy, if they did, I’d only be delighted to get an extra canon shooting at corruption and infamy.’ He smiled happily.

  ‘So you see, I never saw any reason to spend the little money we make on hiring a night watchman, or for that matter, investing in the more expensive gadgets that Mr Yale manufactures and sells at atrocious prices bearing no relation to the cost of production.’ It was only the reputation of the man which stopped the detective concluding that he might have had a hand in skulduggery.

  ‘This bears the hallmark of my old enemy Professor Moriarty,’ he told Dr Watson that night. But I’ll tell you one thing, Doctor, proof will there be none.’

  ‘You mean we should just accept this as -’

  ‘This may not be a consolation to us, Watson, but this case will surely provide us with one or two more clues. As you know, I am building a case against the villain, and the evidence I’m collecting is becoming more substantial by the day, and every new dastardly enterprise of his brings more grist to the mill of his eventual downfall.’

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right, Holmes, eh what!’

  The upshot was that, having contacted the insurers, after three months Lloyd’s decided to make good the loss.

  In the meantime, Elias, aware that his uncle was disappointed in him for allowing himself to be duped, spent sleepless nights trying to find the means of regaining the trust of the father of Cousin Hepzibah.

  ‘Uncle,’ he said to him when he arrived at the shop one morning, ‘shall I tell you the reason why my suspicions were not aroused when the two thieves-’

  ‘Elias, I will forgive you in time, don’t keep beating yourself.’

  ‘Than you, now I want to tell you something which you will find interesting.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘It’s like this. I have been looking at the fake necklace they left us with.’

  ‘So you didn’t destroy it as I told you?

  ‘No, that’s what-’ Ephraïm opened his eyes wide as he interrupted his nephew.

  ‘I think I know what you’re driving at, grandson of my father.’

  ‘Yes. In appearance, it looks like the real thing. We can ask our Paris branch to handle this. Our prospective buyers often can’t tell cow from horse... they have money but no expertise. If we are careful, we can-’ Ephraïm interrupted him. ‘Say no more, dear boy, say no more, walls have ears.’

  VI

  Mr Holmes, Murderer

  It is now well-known that after the Reichenbach Falls debacle, Sherlock Holmes was rescued by Irene Adler. She nursed him back to health with great devotion, and accompanied him to New South Wales where they stayed for a while, in the hope that a change of surroundings would be beneficial to his convalescence. Sherlock lived there for less than a year, Irene rather more. When she went back to London, at his instigation she opened a detective agency of her own, but following Holmes’ advice, to the effect that people would not readily entrust a woman with the sort of work she would be offering, she operated as a man: Dai Lernière. She was tall for a woman, and although slim, she could easily pass for a man. Albeit of the effete type. She often caught men of a certain disposition giving her the eye when in her male disguise.

  In the beginning, it was her mentor, who usually had more work than he could cope with, who directed clients to her. To her delight, her practice, in Warren Street, quickly developed. She was welcomed back with open arms by Armande at Water Lane where she had lodged before moving to Baker Street, as Mrs Hudson, and working as the great detective’s housekeeper. (The reader who is after thoroughness and wants to learn the details can consult The Case Book of Irene Adler, edited by San Cassimally, Amazon *****.)

  Sherlock Holmes was (unfortunately?) not endowed with an obvious talent for friendship, but there were three people in the whole world he might conceivably have identified as friends: his brother Mycroft, who he loved dearly, although it is doubtful whether he realised the intensity of the attachment. Dr Watson, possibly. Who could have resisted loving the dear harmless dullard? And there was Irene Adler, although as a member of the weaker sex, she never stopped making him uneasy. Notwithstanding the fact that they had traversed oceans together, and even shared rooms in Port Jackson, it is quite possible that the only physical contact they ever had, was a couple of handshakes. It is not even certain that they had indulged in this most elementary of social contact. Back in London, the two of them established the tradition of meeting twice a month, except if either was otherwise engaged, at a teahouse halfway between Baker Street and Warren Street, where they would share some silence over a cup of mocha and some French patisserie for which he had developed a certain partiality. Although Holmes claimed that he never gave advice, Miss Adler often benefited from her colleague’s experience and nous. He also claimed that he never asked for, nor when it was offered, took advice, but there are many instances of his having mentioned to Mycroft, or Irene some point which had been troubling him, and if there was any response to this subtle enquiry, he would look away, as if his mind was occupied elsewhere, but his subsequent actions would often be coloured by what he had pretended not to have heard.

  The neighbours in Water Lane would exchange knowing smiles every morning when Irene emerged from the house in her Dai Lernière guise, imagining that the handsome gentleman was one of Madame Armande’s paramours. The obvious continental aura displayed by the members of the Club des As, convinced the local residents that when these exotic folks assembled, which they did at least once or twice a week, practices alien to English decency would be taking place there. Strangely, perhaps because of the charm and friendly disposition of the Frenchwoman, they bore her no malice, and their comments remained confined to exchanges of indulgent smiles, which if not free from innuendos, were devoid of malice. That Monday morning, as the disguised detective descended the steps of Number eight, Water Lane, it was not different. As she was early, she walked at a leisurely pace towards Brixton Hill to catch the Shillibeer to Oxford Circus. Her office was less than five minutes’ walk from the Stop.

  She was indulging in her habitual morning tea, seated behind her overladen desk, when there was a gentle knock at the door. She opened it to a young woman of between thirty-three and thirty-five. Has only recently come into money, she surmised, by her expensive but ill-fitting garments. The fox round her neck was quite inappropriate for the season. A widow perhaps? She read sorrow in her eyes, and at once made up her mind that she had lost someone or something dear. She’s come to ask me to find him or it, she guessed. If it was a man, was he her sweetheart? She showed the visitor to a chair and she settled down on it, making sure that her prized fur w
as not slipping.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Irene asked.

  ‘My name is Esther Warhop,’ she said, ‘Miss Esther Warhop.’

  ‘Miss Warhop, I just brewed some tea and it is still hot, would you like a cup?’ She shook her head.

  ‘Right. What can I do for you.’

  ‘My brother, sir, Mr Cyril Warhop, he is dead.’ She looked intently at Irene and said nothing for a while. What does she expect me to do, wondered Irene, not yet at her serene best, bring him back to life? Organise his funeral? She was aware that it took her a whole hour before her natural cheerfulness expelled the bad humour that waking up instilled in her. Besides until she got to know somebody, she had little or no empathy for them. She deplored this and often wondered whether she could do anything about it.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, you see, he was only twenty-four.’ She means that his death was something of a mystery.

  ‘Did he have a long illness?’ Esther looked relieved.

  ‘Yes, you see, he took ill one morning, threw up all day long, got better, went to work as usual, but things started going wrong from that moment. He became weak, but nothing seemed seriously wrong. I never even called the doctor at first because I thought that he was over-worked and that he was bound to get better. You see, he was young and of rude health.’