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

by San Cassimally

  Until now, her eyes had stayed dry and her voice normal, but suddenly tears started streaming down her cheeks and when she tried to speak not a single word would come out. It pleased Irene that she finally started feeling sorry for the visitor. It must be said that she often castigated herself for her detachment. She was human after all.

  ‘Tell me about Cyril,’ she said.

  He was the sweetest brother any girl could have wished for, loving, caring, generous to a fault. The two of them had always lived together under one roof, in a tenement flat in Collier Street, King’s Cross. She was eight years older than him, and as Mrs Warhop was always poorly, Esther had been like a mother to him. And he fully repaid her. She had refused to be married because she knew that no husband would have understood the mutual devotion that defined their relationship. Nor would a husband be as loving as Cyril was to her. He had never thought of getting married himself either, and had not once regretted this. Taking care of him gave her all the joys she needed in this life. Search London from the Stepney to Hammersmith and you will never find a woman so dearly cherished by her little brother. And now he was dead. What was she to do?

  ‘What did Cyril do? Where did he work?’ She hesitated before answering, taking a deep breath before opening her mouth. He worked as a clerk, delivering telegrams from the Post-Office in St Martin’s-le-Grand. The Club des As, comprising of Irene’s trusted friends, formed to fight injustice wherever it occurred, had looked into the practices of the infamous Cleveland Street male bordello, and discovered that many of the youngsters Charles Hammond employed to satisfy the lust of his aristocratic clients, were telegraph messengers from the afore-mentioned post-office. She was aware of the place being a haunt for dukes and princes, including Prince Victor, the son of the notorious Bertie. It did not take Irene long to add two and two. The obvious answer was four, but Sherlock Holmes often said that sometimes it was not. In this case, the expensive, if tasteless display on her visitor’s person pointed strongly to Cyril having got his name on Charles Hammond’s books. But there were other possibilities.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Warhop, am I right that when your mother passed away you were her sole heirs the two of you?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Lernière, we inherited her debts which amounted to seven pounds fourteen shillings and eleven pence.’ Two and two did add up to four this time.

  ‘Oh, but I’ve put aside ten pounds … eh … guineas … as a fee for your services,’ she added pointedly. Irene seized upon this and asked, exactly what services Esther had in mind.

  ‘I didn’t believe the police when they assured me that my poor darling boy had died of natural causes. My belief, sir, nay, my conviction is that some powerful people have done him in. And other powerful people gave directives to the police and to the hospitals to, eh, what’s the expression? Pervert the course of justice.’

  ‘And you think I could find the truth for you?’

  ‘It’s worth ten guineas to me.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money, Miss Warhop.’

  ‘Cyril left me well-provided for. You see, he was saving to buy us a big house. What would I do with a big house now?’

  For almost a whole minute, Irene looked intently at Esther, saying nothing. It was a delicate situation, and having been told by her friends of the As that she was lacking in tact, she formulated what she needed to say in her head, considered every word carefully, and having satisfied herself that this was the best she was able to conjure, she gave a little cough, and said, ‘Uhm...’

  Esther must have guessed what was coming.

  ‘Uhm, Miss Warhop, if you want me to discover the truth about Cyril’s death, I want you to tell me everything truthfully.’

  ‘Why of course, Mr Lernière. I have... we have nothing to hide.’ Another formulated sentence thoroughly analysed and passed through a filter followed.

  ‘You told me that Cyril worked as a telegraph messenger. Then you said he was saving to buy a large house for the two of you. Where was he getting the money?’ Esther Warhop did not bat an eyelid.

  ‘Oh I wasn’t meaning to hide nothing from you. You’ve heard of Mr Hammond’s establishment in Cleveland Street? He moonlighted there. Very lucrative that were. These rich gentlemen were very generous when it came to satisfying their animal lust. Our Cyril would sometimes bring in twenty pounds in one week.’ She looked at the detective straight in the eye, and did not blush. ‘And he’d hand it all over to me. Here, sis, he’d say, you better look after this. Me, I’d only go to Apple & Magpie with Tom Swiniscow and Charles Newlove, or blow it all on some three-legged greyhound.’

  ‘Did he ever mention names. You know, the names of his...patrons, or call them clients if you will?’

  ‘He said that the Prince … Prince Victor … used to be besotted with him, but not after he met Veck.’

  ‘So, Veck and Cyril had a fight over the Prince?’ Irene had heard about that surprising side of the son of the country’s greatest womaniser. Prince Victor was said to be a much more polished individual than the lecherous Bertie, but he happened to be attracted to men. Lord Clarihoe, Irene’s lavender husband, who had met the young Prince had found him very sympathique.

  ‘Oh Mr Lernière, it’s never like that. Our Cyril explained to me that in this business, you expected the winds to change direction, nobody minded. They only did what they did for money. No sir, him and Veck are...were fast friends. They enjoyed stealing each other’s paramours. It was like a game they played.’

  ‘Any others?’

  ‘Games?’

  ‘No, did he mention names?’

  ‘Lately he talked about a Mr Smith... didn’t believe it was his real name, he said ... he was a big ’un, our Cyril said. A professor maybe, he wasn’t sure. In any case someone really big.’

  ‘That fellow, I’m telling you sis, is right besotted with your weedy brother. Don’t ask me why, but he’ll do anything for me.’

  ‘Might start by looking for him,’ Irene said absently.

  ‘Oh noo,’ Esther protested. ‘That man would never have done him no harm. Cyril said you couldn’t find a kinder man anywhere. He’d never have hurt me little brother.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ Irene stopped herself saying.

  ‘Now,’ Irene said, taking a small pad from a drawer in her desk, on which she meant to scribble some notes. ‘Give me all possible details, dates, time, anything. Tell me all the events leading to Cyril’s death, Miss Warhop.’

  It was a Saturday, fourteenth of May, maybe fifteenth. Cyril was cock-a-hoop. Mr Smith had given him a tenner, some chocolates and a basket of fungi. Chanterelles, Cyril said. They’re the best. Picked them in Epping Forest hisself, he said. And he had promised him more money. You can start looking for some genteel house, sis, he had said. She had cooked him his favourite dinner: an omelette with mushrooms and onions. In butter. She was always suspicious of fungi, but Cyril loved them, and assured her that his patron and client was a sort of professor and knew his mushrooms. He had picked these himself, he assured the boy, they’re as safe as bread fresh out of the oven. He had kept urging her to have a taste, but the one time she agreed, she became as sick as a lip-licking cat, and swore she would never touch the damn thing even if she were shipwrecked on a desert island and it was the only available food. He had thoroughly enjoyed it, and afterwards brother and sister had indulged in a glass of sherry. Suddenly he began to cough and kept at it for almost half an hour. At first she had thought that the liquor had gone the wrong way, so did not worry. True enough he felt much better in the night.

  ‘You see, sis, you’ve been worrying for nothing, a right mother ’en you are, he told me in the morning.’

  He went to work as usual, but she could not help noticing how tired he was when he came back home in the afternoon. He had not even been moonlighting. Good sleeper that he was, that night she heard him tossing and turning in his bed. It was then that she said she was sending for a doctor, but he said not to fuss. It was nothing. In spite of the sleepless
night, he perked up in the morning.

  When he came home from work, he fell fast asleep on his armchair even before he had eaten anything. She thought it best not to wake him up. It was after midnight when he stirred. He seemed quite cheerful. She made him a soup which he devoured greedily with bread and cheese. He loved his cheese, did Cyril. It was a Camembert which one of his rich acquaintances had given him. He was back to normal now, except that one afternoon he asked if she had fed the dog.

  ‘Had you?’

  ‘The thing is we didn’t have no dog, sir.’ She thought nothing of this as he was known for his wicked sense of humour. She noticed that he had difficulty breathing. Everything tired him out. Everything was a struggle. After walking a few steps he had to pause for breath.

  A few days later, she noticed that his hands were trembling, and he said that he had a pain in his back. Esther gave him a good massage and he said he felt much better. She once more said she would send for the doctor, and he said that they did not have money to waste. He swore that he was getting better, although she could see that this was not the case. From that day, his appetite went downhill. He was eating less and less, and often threw up. He had this chronic fatigue. He agreed when she said he should stay at home. He complained that he was finding it difficult to pass water. This time she decided to brave his anger and sent for the doctor. He said that the obvious thing to do when someone was not urinating was to give them more to drink. Water, milk, beer. She bought him a large bottle of ale, but the moment he had one sip he threw up. It was next day that she noticed that the folds of his body, his armpit, the back of his knees, the crook of his elbows, had thin films of white powder. This time the doctor said that the obvious thing to do was to take a piece of wet cloth and wipe the skin. Now he was hardly eating anything. It was fifteen days since the first symptoms had appeared, and something told her that she had left it too late. She was going to lose the only person in the whole world who cared for her. And it was her fault. Why had she listened to him when he would not hear of the doctor. He was now as thin as a sickly teenager dying of consumption. Suddenly in a flash she saw it: he had been poisoned. How, whom by, she had no idea. Did someone sneak in when she was out shopping and administer poison in his drink? That was a clear possibility.

  ‘He had his whole life ahead of him,’ Esther said, doing nothing to stop the tears that were cascading down in torrents now. ‘If I could only die in his place. Except that I thought, who would look after him if I died.’

  ‘So what did you do then?’

  ‘I went to the police. They were quite rude to me. I said that it was strange that men of twenty-five should die like this, and they laughed. Every day, one snooty copper said, hundreds of young men kicked it, and no one came to pester them. Bury him, woman, and pray for his soul.’ She paid a visit to the doctor who had come twice. He nodded silently. Yes, he conceded, it was strange, but life is full of mysteries, even for doctors. Perhaps it was her fault for not sending for him sooner. So she was left with no option but to organise his funeral. Veck and Swiniscow were the only people who turned up, apart from Auntie Ethel who came all the way from Gravesend. And now, she had decided to ask Mr Lernière to look into the matter. Money was not a problem.

  Irene was quite shocked by what she had heard. Indeed, even with no medical knowledge, she could not but feel that it was a case of poisoning. She had made copious notes of the relevant information that Esther Warhop had given her. Now she needed to ask someone who knew. Dr Watson! She remembered that when he got married and left Baker Street, he had left some of his medical tomes at Holmes’ place. Perhaps they might be still there. She would go ask her mentor to let her borrow them. She went to the Post Office and asked to use the phone that they had only recently installed.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Holmes has gone to Hull,’ Mrs Fishpole said, ‘is there anything I can do for you, Mr Lernière?’ She explained that she wanted to consult one or two books that she knew Mr Holmes had on his shelves. The housekeeper was aware of the relationship between her and Mr Holmes. ‘Do you think I could pop in to check something?’ Of course, she was sure Mr Holmes would not mind, but the problem was he had said to her, ‘Mrs Fishpole, why don’t you take a week off in my absence to go visit your aged mother in Northampton?’ And she was about to leave for Euston to catch the 11.53 to Northampton Castle.

  ‘And Mr Holmes will not be back for another week?’ She said, ‘Yes, so I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.’ Irene Adler was not one to wait, nor was she one to concede defeat. Having spent time there, when she was passing herself for Mrs Hudson, she had become familiar with all the ins and outs of Number 221 B Baker Street. With her friends of the Club she had honed many skills, some of which were perfectly legal, but she supposed breaking and entering would not fit that category, even if there was no malicious intent. There was no time like the present time, so she jumped on a Shillibeer and made for Baker Street.

  She entered without breaking and began by making herself a cup of Lapsang Souchong which Sherlock kept for the sole purpose of making brother Mycroft happy. She loved the ambiance of Number 221B, the smell of the austere furniture, the semi-dark corners and the peeling ceiling. She was therefore in no hurry to leave. She smiled as she saw the mess on Holmes’ desk, but knew that the great detective had the capacity of locating anything he needed within seconds. When she was good and ready, she scanned the shelves and found two of Dr Watson’s medical tomes. She sat down and flicked through the first one: Gray’s Anatomy of the Human Body. It was very detailed but with its small prints it would require weeks of study before she would find what she was looking for. The other one, an American publication by A. Cheselden was easier to read. With her perfect memory, she didn’t really need the notes that she had taken, and within half an hour she had identified Cyril Warhop’s symptoms as kidney failure. Now she wanted to know what could cause that in someone so young, and was unable to discover anything of value. She naturally suspected that deadly fungi might be at the root of it. She was putting the books back, when she felt an impish itch to play a joke on her mentor. She would replace the tomes upside down. She knew that nothing escaped the shrewd eyes of the man whose deserved reputation as the most accomplished detective in the world was now well-established. Would he realise that he had had a visitor whilst he was away? She had no doubt that he would work out who that visitor was too. Before taking her leave, she sat herself at the master’s desk, and caught sight of a book under a pile of papers. She was drawn to it, and discovered that it was a title she had come across in the past: Fungi of the English Forests by Mycroft Aloysius Holmes. The fact that it was not on the shelves, but on his desk showed that Sherlock had consulted it in the recent past. She remembered looking at it once when it had first appeared because it had a few prints in colour, one of the first books to boast of that innovation.

  Mycology was something the two brothers shared. They sometimes went mushroom picking together, in Epping Forest. She knew that they used to take holidays in Hampshire when they would go to New Forest in quest of the Holy Grail for the brotherhood of mycologists the world over, the Caesar’s Mushroom. Until now they hadn’t been successful. She checked what Mycroft had written about it: This highly prized fungus, the Amanita Caesarea, was last reported to have been picked in New Forest in 1881, but seems to have left our shores for good. I had the good luck of sampling it during my visit to Maryland in the USA in 1902, and can testify to its unique flavour reminiscent of partridge cooked in port. But the book readily opened at the page describing a specimen she had never heard of, the Cortinarius Rubellus.

  In his preface, Holmes senior warns his readers to be very cautious. His advice was not to eat uncommon mushrooms. He suggested that the chanterelle was probably the safest to identify, with its characteristic saffron colour, its conical shape and its gills going all the way down. It is one of the tastiest too, he enthused, but there were, unfortunately a number of inferior varieties, even lethal ones, which can be mistaken for
it, albeit by the drunk or the undiscerning. He mentions the false chanterelle and the jack o’ lantern. Whilst not deadly, he explains, they can cause gastric problems and in any case are pretty tasteless. Best to avoid. The one which posed a serious threat, in his estimate, was the deadly webcap or, to give it its scientific name, the Cortinarius Rubellus. Wasn’t that the genus on the page of the book as it opened? “This little chappie, is quite attractive with in its blushing rubescence. A Japanese chemist, Professor Kenji Ozu had volunteered to taste it in the cause of science (and duly died after recording his every sensation, two weeks later), and had compared its taste to marzipan, although lacking in sweetness. John Dalton, the most eminent chemist this country has produced, carried out an experiment in which he asked people to separate various varieties of mushrooms picked in the Lake District, and he was amazed at the high percentage of the number of people who placed the deadly webcap in the same pile as bone fide chanterelles.”

  Mycroft Holmes then picks up the alarming details of Professor Ozu’s final sixteen days. Irene was shaken to read an almost similar account to the agony of young Cyril Warhop. The fatigue, the sleeplessness, the inability to pass water, the incoherent speech (“have you fed the dog Esther?”). The appearance of a white powder on the folds of the body erased all doubts. The detective was convinced that Cyril was poisoned by the webcap? Could it have been accidental? She doubted whether anybody would be able to (a) identify the mysterious lover, Professor Smith, or (b) discover whether the killing was intentional or not. It was extraordinary that Sherlock Holmes had been consulting that particular page. Always the rationalist, Irene refused to attribute too much importance to the happenstance. Holmes had discussed flukes and chances with her once. She remembered him saying that if a whole day passed without something fortuitous happening, one should start worrying. He had made a study of the occurrence of seldom used words being heard within one hour, and was still gathering data with the intention of devoting a monograph on the topic.