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

by San Cassimally

  Nonetheless, on the way home, she could not help being preoccupied by the adventitious appearance of that particular book on Holmes’ desk. Irene had a sleepless night. She was sure that she was within sniffing distance of the truth. There wasn’t the shadow of a doubt in her mind that the boy had died of orellanin poisoning. Was it by person or persons unknown? Could it conceivably have been self-inflicted? Could the grieving sister have been involved? If so, what would have been her motive? That would be an easy one to resolve. She would visit her next day and put her to the test.

  Early next day Dai Lernière knocked on the door of Number 15 Collier Street, and a distraught Esther opened it to her. She had slept not a wink in the night. She was convinced that her poor brother had been done in, but equally certain that the dear boy would not get justice in this world.

  ‘It’s quite a surprise to see you here Mr Lernière,’ she managed to say as she ushered her visitor inside the tastelessly but expensively furnished sitting room. Irene had determined not to beat about the bush.

  ‘Esther,’ she said looking at her straight in the eyes, ‘before I start a thorough investigation, I need to eliminate you as a suspect. You understand that I have to do that.’ She had worked on that gambit very carefully. She aimed to watch her reaction. Caught unaware like that, a guilty person would certainly become indignant and start stammering or spluttering, her pupils shrinking to a tiny spot. Miss Warhop squinted, making sure she heard right, smiled, opened her eyes wide with assumed merriment, her pupils enlarged.

  ‘I murdered my brother? The only person in the whole wide world I have loved? I understand why you have to do this, but you must have some grounds. What are those grounds, then?’ In his monograph, Sherlock states that of all the signs the truth-teller emits, nothing is as conclusive as the movement of the pupils. A liar can learn to look his interlocutor straight in the eyes, counterfeit an innocent smile, move his head towards you and not away, or refrain from touching his nose (Holmes was working on the theory that lying induces the secretion of some substance which irritates the nose, with Dr Watson), as a liar is known to do, but no one can control his pupils. Miss Warhop was staring at her with the largest possible pupils she could muster. That woman was telling God’s honest truth. She would never have done the slightest thing to harm her brother.

  ______

  The Holmes brothers grew up in a very strict household. Mrs Holmes was a humourless and bad-tempered woman. This was something neither brother understood then, and intrigued them in later years. Sherlock, the younger one was usually the butt of her jibes and remonstrances, but she seemed to have a soft spot for the older Mycroft. Sherlock could not recall one specific example of his sibling standing up for him, but remembered that as a rule, when the irate woman tried to enlist his allegiance, like in, ‘Isn’t it true, Mycroft, that Schlock is always knocking things over and pretending that it’s not him?’ Schlock! How he hated being called that. Mycroft would shrug, not daring to contradict the parent in case she directed her fire at him, but the younger boy understood that his brother was not really agreeing with her. That was why all his life he felt so much loyalty for the older Holmes. Based on a non-committal shrug. He usually put on a pained look every time Mycroft turned up at Baker Street, which he did on average once every two weeks, for he was a very busy man with many responsibilities as an arcane government adviser or trouble-shooter. Whenever Viscount Ridley had a conundrum- and he very often did – it was Mycroft Holmes who he summoned for help. Sherlock always implied that Mycroft had come at an inconvenient time. It was a game, but if the hoped-for visit did not materialise, he would become fidgety and absent-minded, asking his housekeeper if anybody had turned up during his absence.

  The younger brother who devoted all his time to his detective work and concomitant studies, had no time for what he called frivolities, but he was aware of his senior being a member of the Patroclus Club. He had known of a handful of effete young men with whom Mycroft had been besotted, and knew for a fact that he sometimes visited Mr Hammond’s den in Portland Street, which pretended to be a Turkish bath.

  Sherlock had not been happy about this, and one day he mustered enough courage to challenge his brother. He had expected him to fly into a rage, but he had quietly shaken his head and said, ‘If you knew how fraught with danger being an invert is, my dear Sherlock, you would understand that one does not choose this life-style, it chooses one.’ He had indulged in the white powder in order to fully comprehend the purport of Mycroft’s cry for help, and from that day, he stopped being judgemental about homosexuals, although he continued to view them, the older Holmes excepted, with some slight suspicion. Later when Mr Oscar Wilde was arraigned in court for sodomy, he happily added his name to a petition demanding an end to his persecution.

  The brothers lived comfortably enough. Sherlock was frugal by nature and he thought that what little revenue his cases brought him was quite adequate for a pleasant existence. He was neither a gourmet nor did expensive wines or Havanas have an appeal for him. I can’t tell plonk from a Chateau wine, he boasted. He did not gamble, and when his simple accoutrements wore off, he went for exact replicas. He had no wish to change his appearance, except in the line of duty, when he greatly enjoyed the charade. His only expenses were for buying books and scientific equipment for his experiments. Mycroft, earning considerably more as a government adviser, liked the good life, and indulged in the sort of activities one would expect of someone in his situation. He joined Viscount Ridley and other dignitaries on their fox-hunting sprees, but did so without too much relish. He liked fine port and loved a good cigar. He gave up gambling in his twenties, and lived in accommodation appointed by his Ministry.

  It is therefore easy to imagine Sherlock Holmes’ surprise, when one afternoon, he came in looking rather careworn, and a shadow of his usual effusive self. None of the, “Hello Runt, have you been behaving in my absence?” gambit. Sherlock who has no equal when it comes to observing people’s attitudes and reactions, although he often switched this faculty off, had always found that Mycroft’s vicinity quite neutralised his perceptive powers. Enter, venerable and respected senior, he said as usual. Place your tired but valued frame on this my humble armchair, and if the burden of Whitehall on your shoulders is not too much to bear, sit down, relax and let your devoted little sibling do what he can to lighten your Herculean burden. Shall I get Mrs Fishpole to brew you some Lapsang Souchong? Yes, yes, just do that. The detective rang the bell and when the housekeeper popped her head through the door, he gave her the appropriate instruction. Suddenly it struck him that Mycroft had not called him Runt, or dear boy, for probably the first time in fifteen years, and realised that he missed that little divertimento. He now made a conscious effort to study his brother. His eyes were sunken and slightly bloodshot, his cheeks sallow, and his photographic memory flashed an image of an uncharacteristic stoop as he had walked in.

  ‘Am I right, Mycroft, that something is troubling you?’

  ‘You’re supposed to be a detective. I’ve even heard the expression nec plus ultra being bandied around in your connection, so I won’t deny it. I have been sleeping very badly.’ Something must indeed be wrong, mused Sherlock, if Mycroft starts bandying compliments.

  ‘Tut tut, that won’t do. Your sleeping very badly is not the cause of your trouble. It’s an effect. I mean something is troubling you, and this makes you sleep badly. What I want to know is why you are sleeping badly.’

  ‘Yes, yes... you’ve often told me how clever you were, there’s no need to keep doing it. I was coming to that.’ Sherlock looked at his watch with greater emphasis than one usually does if all one wanted was to find the time.

  ‘Yes I know we’ve not got all day, but you must allow a fellow some time to collect enough resolve to confess something which may be construed as shameful.’ His Uranian lifestyle has landed him in hot water. The younger man waited for a whole minute but heard nothing. If it were someone else sitting opposite him, he would hav
e immediately noticed that his eyes were filled with tears.

  ‘You’re not in trouble with the law, Mycroft?’ The man raised his head and their eyes locked for less than a second. Without great conviction he shook his head. No, not a police matter. Mrs Fishpole came in with a tray holding a pot of Lapsang Souchong and a plate of scones and fig jam. She had a weakness for the government man – who did not?- and gave him a coy curtsey. Mycroft was too much a gentleman not to respond to that. He has been known, in the past to seize the housekeeper’s hand and implant a kiss upon it, but today he just smiled his thanks graciously. The two brothers said nothing while they partook of the collation. The younger Holmes prided himself that any deduction he made was based on observation. Instinct usually only confirms the logic. However, from nowhere this thought dropped into his head: Why would Mycroft who earns a fortune suddenly be in need of a loan?

  ‘I am in need of a loan of fifty pounds dear boy,’ he heard his brother say. Do I even have fifty pounds?

  ‘I’ve written out a receipt. It’s here.’ He took the piece of paper and read it: Received from Sherlock Holmes the sum of ￡50.00 Sterling. Signed Mycroft Holmes.

  ‘The tarnation of it is that I cannot give you a firm commitment about when I can pay you back. Maybe never. But if anything happens to me, I have mentioned this in my will.’

  ‘Are you being blackmailed then?’

  ‘No! Absolutely not. Whoever gave you that ludicrous idea?’ The detective was now on his guard, and was watching his brother intently. His eyelids quivered as he exploded in anger. His pupils had shrunk to an impossible size. But the best clue of all was his placing his hand over his mouth to wipe away some imaginary soup or bread crumbs. Sherlock walked to his safe, opened it and found no more than forty-three pounds. By now Mycroft had regained some of his ascendancy.

  ‘I said fifty dear boy.’ Sherlock pursed his lips and shook his head.

  ‘You solve all those incredible cases and then you let your clients pay you in pounds … of sand,’ he sneered. Sherlock shrugged. What followed might be thought caricatural, but it must be remembered that even with his back to the wall, the elder Holmes never let go of his supercilious humour. ‘Do you ever ponder on the possibility of your elder brother to whom you owe everything needing assistance of a financial nature?’ The younger Holmes put his hands on his chest and made a shuddering gesture as an apology, accepting completely that he was wanting in brotherly concern. Shouldn’t he confide in me though? Do I not deserve to know what the totality of my savings are going towards? He made a superhuman effort and blurted out:

  ‘I say, Mycroft, aren’t you going to tell me why you need so much money?’

  ‘No!’ was the explosive answer. ‘If I was minded to confide in you, I’d have done it first thing. D’you understand?’

  ‘Sometimes I am quite idiotic,’ conceded Sherlock, more to pacify his troubled brother than to offer a mea culpa.

  ‘The word “sometimes” that you used had no raison d’être.’ Sherlock looked at him sheepishly. ‘None whatsoever, d’you hear?’

  And that was that.

  A week later, Mycroft turned up at Baker street once more. He had a basket with him and the sharp-eyed host noticed that it contained a bottle of sweet sherry, a colourful box bearing the inscription: Cadbury’s Chocolate, Made at Bourneville, and some chanterelle mushrooms in an open cardboard box. After the usual facetious greetings had been exchanged, he took out some notes from his pocket and handed them to the younger man.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s money, Runt, lucre, pelf, ducats, wampums … have you lost your reason to the extent that you don’t recognise money? It’s the forty pounds you so grudgingly lent-’

  ‘Yes, yes, I mean ...’ He did not point out that this was three pounds short.

  ‘If you must know, I was given a painting by one of those pretentious young men who call themselves the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, someone called Holman Hunt. Quite atrocious, if you ask me. Anyway I always wanted to get rid of it, and would have willingly tossed it in the Thames, but some ludicrous friend of the Viscount offered me six hundred guineas for it. So here is the money I borrowed from you.’

  ‘Well, eh, if you’re sure...’

  ‘Damn it Schlock, if I were not sure I wouldn’t have bothered, now, would I?’

  After the usual collation of Lapsang Souchong and scone with Mrs Fishpole’s greengage jam this time, Mycroft said, ‘I have a strange request to make. I know you’re a busy man, so do whatever you’d be doing and make as if I weren’t here, and let me have a little siesta on your couch. And could you ask Mrs F to get that coachmen of yours to come pick me up at half past three?’ Since the older man seemed a little more relaxed, Sherlock smiled mockingly and said, ‘That’s two requests, dear brother number one.’ Mycroft accepted the gentle rebuke. Sherlock showed him to the couch, providing him with a patchwork blanket.

  ‘Don’t want any fuss. I’ll be out of here at three-thirty, I’ll see myself out.’

  He was surprised at the speed with which the older man succumbed unto the arms of Lethe. What drove him to sell one of his most treasured possessions, I wonder. Was this connected to the loan? It did not take him long to conclude that his brother was indeed being blackmailed. It was his belief that a blackmailer does not stop his nefarious activity simply because he has been paid once. If anything, once a payment had been made, any blackmailer would make the following reasoning: If I made him pay once, would I not be stupid to stop, seeing that it was so easy? Mycroft can use his great intellect to solve important government conundrums, but he clearly has no idea how the criminal mind works. He doesn’t know it, but he needs my help.

  As planned, by three thirty-one Mycroft was out of the house. The cab pulled up to Number 221B, and he climbed in.

  ‘Go towards King’s Cross my good man, Collier Street,’ he instructed the coachman. When they arrived at the destination, Mycroft got down, forgetting his basket of offerings, and Sherlock, for it was him, in an elaborate disguise, pushing his cap down to hide his face, got down, and ran after his fare, breathlessly saying, ‘You left this be’ind, guvna.’ He took the hamper without saying thank you, and aimed for Number 15. So that’s where your fancy boy bides.

  It did not take the detective more than a day to discover everything he needed to know about Cyril Warhop. If he were indeed what Sherlock suspected, the fellow who was causing his hapless brother all this grief, he will personally deal with the villain.

  ______

  Coming home from Baker Street, Irene had the nagging feeling that she could have found more when she was there. She began by ruling out the possibility of the two brothers having any hand in the elimination. Wryly she mused over this thought: when you have nothing to hang your facts on, any hypothesis, however outlandish cannot be ruled out. On an impulse she got off the Shillibeer at the next stop. She was going back to Baker Street with every intention of eliminating the gross idea which was now squatting, uninvited, within her brain. Sherlock had never done a single dishonourable thing in all his life, and never would, even if his own life depended upon it. Yes, mmm, but what if his brother’s reputation was at stake. What if the idea had occurred to him that Mycroft might end his life if he could not live with the shame of being exposed? All sorts of factors would enter into the equation here, and in the end, he might do the selfless thing. She herself once killed a man who abused and murdered little children, when she convinced herself that the world would be a better pace for vulnerable children if the villain were eliminated. Might not Sherlock think along the same lines? She hailed a cab and returned to Baker Street, which she knew would still be empty.

  She knew how to open safes and drawers, and it took her no time to find what she was looking for: Three receipts for various sums of money, ranging from twenty to one hundred pounds from Mycroft. Why would Mycroft have to borrow from his less well-off sibling? Smells of blackmail. Esther had said that Cyril was expecting a large enough wi
ndfall to enable them to buy a new house in a genteel area. The young rascal might conceivably have been blackmailing his older lover/client shamelessly. The fact that the book had opened on the page of the deadly webcap would seem to indicate that Sherlock either had a hand in the plotting, or knew about it. Suddenly a thought struck her: why would Sherlock have been involved? Mycroft would have been well able to carry out the dastardly act by himself. The book opening where it did was just a coincidence. The two brothers shared this mycological pursuit, and they might have talked about that specific variety, at the instigation of the older Holmes, leaving the younger man with the need to consult the literature.

  Irene was well-aware that her conjectures were based on guesswork. Evidence was there none. If she challenged Mycroft, say, and he denied everything, there was nothing she could do about it. Esther had never seen Mycroft, nor, she had assured Irene, had Cyril described him to her, apart from the laconic, ‘He’s some sort of professor.’

  Veck!

  Veck and Cyril had been friends, and they were work colleagues as well- in both spheres of activity. He might know something. She went to Collier Street next day, to talk to the bereaved sister. Did she have an idea about where she might find this chap Veck? Esther had no idea where he lived. But I must absolutely talk to him. In that case, Esther had said, there’s only one thing to do, go to Mr Hammond’s place in Cleveland Street.

  She decided that she would do just that. She asked herself in what way would Veck be able to convey to her what Cyril Warhop’s lover looked like? Fortunately, the Club des As had done some excellent spadework to help them with their activities, nefarious as well as altruistic. Among the many skills the Club had developed, were lip-reading, which enabled them to watch people from a distance and eavesdrop on their conversations. They had also created the means of getting witnesses to identify known villains by assembling all types of facial features together, replacing them when necessary until a likeness was pronounced. But it had to be pronounced. It was Traverson who had done the spadework to Irene’s concept. Again, Irene loved to call herself a Tamer of Locks. Another accomplishment she had learnt from Sherlock Holmes, was the ability to judge whether people were telling lies or not by watching their body movements, including the pupils of the eye. She had obviously learnt much more from the man from Baker Street.