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

by San Cassimally

  It was therefore not going to be impossible for her to square that circle, one would think. She sent word to Artémise Traverson their Club artist to hurry to Water Lane where his services were urgently required. The Frenchman sat opposite Irene in Armande’s large airy front room with stacks of his drawings spread on the dark massive mahogany table. Artémise kept examples of every anatomical item likely to help fashion out someone’s likeness. Irene had clear recall and easily picked Mycroft’s nose from the pack. It was a large aquiline sniffer which rather fortunately for its owner fell short of podginess. The eyes were large and rounder as a result. The cheekbones were high and the forehead encroached quite shamelessly on the skull. Among the many ears the artist had, it was easy to pick Mycroft’s, opening rather unwisely, almost touching the neck. Having agreed on the individual parts, Irene left her companion to synthesize the portrait of the mandarin.

  Irene had had the opportunity of visiting Mr Hammond’s den of iniquity once, with her lavender husband Lord Clarihoe, when it was suspected to be the venue for the plotting of the elimination of David Lloyd George.

  Algie Clarihoe loved taking risks, and readily agreed to accompany her. Need you ask? Was his response when his wife mooted the point. A couple of days later, armed with nothing more than the sketch, she once more became Count von Klapisberg, and she and Algie went inside the Turkish Bath, a pair of fast friends seemingly looking for some illicit pleasure. Hammond readily pointed to Veck.

  When she was closeted with the young scamp, he needed little encouragement to recount his amorous trysts. Clearly none of his clients would use their own names. Most patrons of the establishment were Smiths, Robinson, and the dull colours, White, Brown or Black. Veck identified the man who was besotted with dear Cyril from Traverson’s sketches confirming Mycroft as the inamorato. However, the fact that Mycroft knew Cyril, even when considering the manner of his death, did not seem sufficient to prove his guilt, let alone guarantee a conviction in a court of law. But a jury might not think it far-fetched. Mycroft would indubitably enlist the services of the top advocates in the land, but the jury would not easily be minded to find in favour of an invert. Irene was clear in her mind that she would only press Esther to demand a trial if and only if she managed to build up a credible case. And if she became convinced of Mycroft’s guilt, she would never have a day’s rest until she had assembled water-tight evidence. Veck claimed to be disappointed when she declared that owing to a few sleepless nights she was not all that libidinous, and the young sex-provider shrugged. An exchange of ten shillings ensured no hard feelings. Algie chose not to tell her if he had indulged with the mignon he had chosen.

  The only thing that Irene could prove beyond the shadow of a doubt was that Mycroft was indeed the man who had been canoodling with Cyril. She felt that she had to tackle Sherlock about a few things.

  She visited him a few days later without warning. The detective did not like the unexpected, and was of course unable to hide his sentiments, but courtesy demanded that he refrained from expressing his disapproval in words. However, as Irene had learnt from him how to read body signs, she was fully aware of his position. Further, she suspected that he might have had an inkling of her reasons for visiting him. She went straight to the point.

  ‘You are not unaware that whilst you were away in Hull, I walked into your abode like a thief.’

  ‘Indeed I was, but I will own to being completely perplexed as to why you might have done that. Knowing you, I have immediately discarded the conjecture that you did this for any frivolous reason, but I cannot for the life of me begin to imagine why you would do such a thing. Could you enlighten me?’ She would. She enlightened him, beginning by giving him a precise and detailed account of Cyril Warhop’s painful death. Lying did not come easily to Sherlock Holmes. He could not hide the fact that he was greatly perturbed by what he was hearing. When Irene told him of Mycroft’s obsession with the young homosexual boy, he blushed and blinked, looked away and stammered his absolute certainty that his protégée was barking up the wrong tree. Mycroft was his brother and he knew everything about him. He was no invert, and certainly would not dally with young men for sexual gratification. Was Irene losing her mind?

  ‘Just answer me one question, Mr Holmes? Why did Mycroft borrow money from you. Why did he sell his painting?’

  ‘Why do I need to answer you, Miss Adler?’

  ‘If you choose not to, I might report to my employer, namely Miss Esther Warhop and inform her that I have reasons to suspect that Mycroft Holmes killed, or arranged to kill her brother.’

  Irene, who knew Holmes probably better than anyone else, had never seen him in such a state. He was a man who knew not how to keep up pretences. She saw him look at the small triangular glass case where he kept his white powder. He began to tremble like someone who had a high temperature. She enquired whether he was feeling unwell, did she need anything? Some water? He replied angrily that he needed nothing except for her to leave, eyeing the case all the time.

  ‘Admit it, Mr Holmes, Mycroft was besotted with Cyril, and the young scoundrel was blackmailing him.’ He blurted out, Ridiculous, looking away.

  ‘And he decided that there was only one thing to do. Get rid of the blackmailer.’

  ?

  ‘So he killed the boy. Poisoned him with the Deadly Webcap?’

  ‘Miss Adler, there is a mystical link between the two of us, don’t you agree?’ She nodded.

  ‘You know I would do anything to protect you.’ Irene did not respond immediately.

  ‘I discovered how Lord Stoneheart met his death in Ashridge forest, did I tell you?’ How on earth had he found out that she had shot and killed the child murderer?

  ‘Yes,’ she stammered finally, ‘but that man was vermin, he had been abusing young children as young as six and then killing them. The police couldn’t touch him. Someone had to do something.’

  ‘Blackmailers are worse than killers, Miss Adler. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘So you’re saying Mycroft poisoned he boy?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sherlock sadly. Irene knew that she had no choice. Mycroft had to pay the price for the murder. The night before she opened her agency, she swore an oath in front of the members of the Club, to the effect that she would carry out her duties without fear or favour, and never let a guilty man get away with his crime by reasons of his wealth, power, or influence.

  ‘I’ll have to report this to Scotland Yard, I am afraid,’ she said sadly, ‘you can see that I have no choice.’ Sherlock Holmes nodded and for a whole minute neither said anything.

  ‘Can I say something, Miss Adler?’ She indicated that she was all ears.

  ‘I am going to beg you … begging does not come easily to me … I am going to beg you to do nothing of the sort.’

  ‘My first duty is to my client,’ she said.

  ‘Mycroft is the person I hold dearest in the whole world. His downfall will be the end of me. If you value me as I value you, you will not allow that to happen.’ Irene felt sure he was lying, or at least being less than truthful. His words were not in harmony with his body movements. Irene found that difficult to understand, for clearly Sherlock had nothing to gain by incriminating his much loved brother. However, since he had admitted it, she told him that she had no option now, but to go to Scotland Yard and report the matter.

  ‘If you do that, Miss Adler, I will feel liberated of the promise I made to myself that I will never mention the nefarious events at Ashridge Forest to a living soul.’ Irene was surprised when she heard herself cackling with laughter. Who would believe you? she asked. She would deny it. She will sue him for slander.

  ‘Not after you have sworn on the bible, you won’t.’ She was a free-thinker, she said, she would have no compunction if her life depended upon it.

  ‘But you feel you cannot, in the name of the great friendship that we share, do me a favour?’ This was the first time Mr Holmes had confessed to anybody that he considered them a friend. Irene was to
uched by this, but only for a short time.

  ‘No, Mr Holmes, I could not contemplate that.’

  Irene did not wait for Mrs Fishpole to get her coat, but went to the cloakroom and got it herself. She had put it on, and was walking towards the door, when Mr Holmes stopped her.

  ‘Miss Adler, do not depart yet, I pray you.’ She knew he meant business, and sheepishly turned round and followed him back to his sitting room. He showed her the sofa, and after she had sat there, still encumbered by her coat, he pulled a chair and sat opposite her. He took a deep breath before saying anything.

  ‘I lied to you.’ It was funny that she recognised that he was telling the truth now. The expression on his face was frank and unalloyed. His pupils were never more dilated. But when had he lied?

  ‘When I led you to believe that Mycroft was the one who planned the killing of Cyril Warhop.’

  ______

  It had not taken Holmes much time to discover the truth about Mycroft and the young scamp, after he had followed him to Collier Street. He was really depressed after that, for he knew that he had to do something, but what and how, he knew not. It must be admitted that this was the sort of occasion when he reached for the white powder in the triangular case. He had often wondered how cocaine worked on the human body, and although he was still unsure, he suspected that in the state of torpor that it left him, the subconscious took over. After attending a lecture by Sigmund Freud, he had become convinced that this component of the brain function was much more potent, as it was free from conscious prejudices and other interference.

  When his state returned to normal, he had reached a drastic conclusion. Mycroft was well-connected. Among his allies were powerful politicians, policemen, lawmakers and law enforcers. He mused and mulled over means of silencing the young blackmailer, and the more he mused and mulled, the less likely it appeared to him that anything could stop young Warhop. The best way was to buy him off, but Mycroft was already ruining himself. Selling his beloved painting said it all. Suddenly the words “it must be by his death” hit him, and they nagged at him like toothache.

  When he suggested to Mycroft that they should kill the blackmailer, he nearly had an apoplexy.

  But I love the boy, what are you saying? Are you mad?

  But he will be the death of you.

  Then so be it.

  He will destroy your good name.

  So be it. And don’t ever suggest anything of the sort, or I will report you to Scotland Yard. Inciting murder is a crime, you know.

  So what are you going to do?

  I will do everything he asks, and when I cannot, I will just blow my brains out.

  Sherlock knew that he meant this. And he swore that he will never let him get to that point. There was only one thing left.

  Mycroft shunned Baker Street for two whole weeks, something he had never done, except when he accompanied the Viscount to Russia a few years back. When he turned up, he happened to have a basket of comestibles for his lover, mostly things he had bought at Fortnum and Mason’s, but also, as it was mushroom season, a box of chanterelles. As it was mushroom season, Sherlock too had been foraging. In Epping, he had picked three whole specimens of the Cortinarius Rubescens, the deadly webcap. He had kept them in his lab with the intention of studying them. Mrs Fishpole made them lunch, after which the older brother, as was his wont, wanted a short siesta before leaving. Sherlock knew that he had to act with despatch. He took out some chanterelles, and placed the deadly mushrooms at the bottom, after squashing them a little. He was satisfied that unless someone was expecting foul play, they would not normally spot the anomaly. Esther did the cooking, and poor Cyril the eating. Four people were involved, but the guilt belonged to only one of them.

  Sherlock had not lied to Irene to save his own neck, when he told her that it was Mycroft who had killed the boy. He was convinced that when Irene heard this, she would back off, out of loyalty to Holmes. He did not like the idea of being beholden to her. She did not really know Mycroft, and was not likely to do anything with the false knowledge apart from bottling it. Now that the meddling woman had said that she was going to Scotland Yard, he had no choice but to tell her the truth. He looked at her straight in the eyes.

  ‘Miss Adler, look at me, you know when someone is lying. I was surprised that you had not picked on this whilst I was spinning my yarn about Mycroft’s guilt to you. Possibly because your loyalty to me gave you the certainty that I would never lie to you. I am now going to make a clean breast of everything.’ And he told her the complete truth.

  ‘Now I beg of you: Give me a day to tie up my affairs, re-write my will and burn some incriminating papers before going to Scotland yard. You are right to do so. One owes complete honesty to one’s clients.’

  Irene had never contemplated that the man she admired above everyone else in this world would have been able to take someone’s life, although under similar circumstances, she had no doubt that she would have acted in the same manner. She never doubted that Sherlock was the only man she had or would ever love. Regularly she dreamt of domestic situations where they were a couple living a blissfully happy life. She knew that if he loved her back, it was in an unromantic manner. At best it was like a brother-sister relationship. She was grateful for that. All her blood was drained from her. She started shivering. The woman who prided herself on her strength, was now on the verge of tears. That lump in her throat was threatening to burst. She opened her mouth but no voice would come out. He noticed her shattered state, and quickly poured her a glass of sherry. Take this, it will calm you down. She tipped the whole contents in her mouth in one go, and felt it run down her gullet. She could not stop blinking, and managed to stand up, but had to prop herself against the edge of the desk.

  ‘You do as your conscience dictates,’ Holmes said in a gentle whisper.

  ‘Wh.. wh... what d-does yours dictate?’

  ‘I reckon that I … honestly, I don’t know. I will accept anything you do.’ Irene gave it some thought. If Mycroft had been the guilty one, she would have had no hesitation, she owed him nothing. But how could she be the instrument of Holmes’ destruction? The man had a legacy, and if he ended his life on the gallows, generations to come would forget all the brilliant work he did in fighting crime, and only remember that he was a murderer. They will write plays about the hypocritical murderer who passed himself as a detective in the day and went on the rampage at night. No, she was not going to be responsible for that.

  VII

  The Ghost in the Castle

  It was a moonless midnight, black as the inside of a grave. Not a single star in the sky above dared twinkle lest this identified the location. The eerie silence was heightened by the very rare rustle of the dank breeze in the leaves, interspersed by screeches which would not have immediately struck anyone as being animal in origin. Any human who had dared venture abroad would have easily felt something slimy and cold brush past his face, such is the hold of fear. The village was sound asleep after a day’s back-breaking toil. Any snoring sounded more like a painful moan. A child stirred occasionally, as the acid of hunger tore at his insides. Gone were the days of slavery. No black man or woman was supposed to be still the chattel of a lord and master, but the condition of the peasants who worked on the Hertfordshire fields of Lord Sternton from day break to sunset were not much better. All for the enrichment of the lord of the Castle. After the mysterious death of Lady Primrose, his lordship had hastily moved away. The village had no idea where, it was not for them to ask. His business manager, Mr Phillip Crackspill, was entrusted with the task of running the estate. If anybody entertained the notion that this man, himself of modest origin was going to insert a small dose of humanity in his proceedings, they would have been sadly disillusioned. If anything, keen to impress the man who paid his salary with his professionalism, he became more demanding than his heartless employer demanded.

  The Castle having been empty for over a year, his lordship summoned his representative on earth to H
ighbury where he now bided, in a mansion which easily rivalled those of the richest bankers and insurance brokers, and instructed him to put the Castle on the market. It is worth sixty thousand pounds, but I will not part with it for less that seventy. If we wait long enough, he instructed, the price I’m asking will be met. He was as sure of this as he was, that the bone structure of peasants was different from those of the people who matter. On the way back to Hertfordshire Crackspill wondered whether he might not manage seventy-five.

  The Club des As, having carried out a series of ventures, in which articles such as jewellery, paintings and vases, weavings from Old Persia and Samarkand were involved, or actions, as they called them, was interested in buying just such a property for their communal use, and could just about afford it by using some of their ill-gotten gains. Among those that had caught their eyes was Castle Sternton, former seat of Lord Leopold Augustus Sternton de la Mortaye, whose ancestors were archers who came to England in 1066 with Guilleaume de Normandie. Marteau- as he was then - had acquired his title and lands by the toil and sweat of Hereward the Wake’s defeated enemies forcibly turned into serfs, and by the little matter of Marteau, Leopold’s ancestor encouraging his daughters to share the bed of royal retainers and hangers-on.

  Irene, Algie and Armande arranged a visit to Sternton near Ashridge to inspect the property. Crackspill bowed and deferred and showed them round and it did not take long for them before they became captivated by everything they saw: the sound condition of the building, although there were superficial damages which they felt could be easily put right, the space available, the surroundings, the little fishpond, the paddocks, the mature woods. Yes, they meant to make a firm offer, but canny as they were, they never revealed their enthusiasm. Then they met with the villagers and encouraged them to air their views. When the visitors from London with their fine clothes spoke to them in polite tones to which they were not accustomed, they were, initially quite confused, imagining that it was all superficial, but somehow they understood that, exceptionally, these people were potential masters with a different attitude. These people seemed genuinely interested in them, and they formed the opinion that if they became the new owners of Castle Sternton, it might mean a necessary improvement to their lives. Could it be possible that they would lose their status of beasts of burden and encouraged to turn into human beings with rights? Dreaming is not the sole privilege of the moneyed class. In fact, the underprivileged have a vaster scope for wishful thinking. A man with, say, one million pounds might well wish to have two of them, but can he imagine how this would improve his life? On the other hand, a starving man with tuppence catches a glimpse of paradise if he picks but a shilling on the road. The peasants did not open up immediately, but when they did, they readily told stories of insults and whipping, of fines for slackness so-called, of the decrease in their rate of pay when they had ill-advisedly begged for a rise.