San Cassimally
Green Okapi Press
Edinburgh & Liverpool
Text copyright © 2014 San Cassimally
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 1497383404
ISBN-13: 9781497383401
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014905360
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
For
Hakim, Karim and Katrina
My warm thanks to Mary O’Donnell who undertook the monumental task of editing the manuscript, and to (my son) Hakim for helping with the technology. And to Janie Kliever for the cover, which Enrico Harvey modified
— San Cassimally
Absence of Truth
Sherlock vs. Sherlock
Disappearing Daughters of England
The Anatomy of a Bank Robbery
The Assassination of Lloyd-George
My Friend Harriet
Customs of the Sea
am back! The time we spent in Australia was splendid. Algie, having been finally informed of my whereabouts, came to join me after a couple of months. He loved the great outdoors and the serene quietude of the place as much as I did, but he began missing London.
Whilst I was his prisoner, Moriarty promised that if anything happened to him, his ruthless associate Colonel Sebastian Moran, a man who had no fear of death, would come for us all guns blazing. The renegade military hero, he had told me, was completely deranged and would not rest until he and his many accomplices had destroyed us—he had told the professor that the voices in his head could not be denied. When in full possession of our faculties, physical and mental, Holmes and I would have been equal to any challenge, but the events at the Reichenbach Falls had left us much weakened. I therefore thought that we might seek rest and safety in the antipodes. To my surprise, after his convalescence in the Swiss mountains, when I suggested to Holmes that he might enjoy a few months away from the bustle of London, he took less than one minute to signify his enthusiasm for the idea. He had always entertained a wish to walk upside down, he said with barely a smile. We left with great despatch, not even informing Lord Clarihoe to whom I was legally married. Or Dr Watson, to who Holmes was not.
I hope one day to write an account of my time in Australia, but now that I am back in London, my priority is seeking the means of making an honest living.
Outside the fiercely loyal Club des As, only Sherlock Holmes knows the real identity of Lady Clarihoe. He tells me that he has not even told Dr Watson and has no plans to do so. Since the Uranian Algernon Clarihoe with whom I had a mariage blanc had hardly any contact with his family, I hardly ever met them. Many of them do not even recognise me if they see me at Ascot or in Drury Lane. In any case, although we see each other often, my nominal husband and I do not live at the same address—which is probably why we are the best of friends. We are only married on paper to placate his father and I will not accept any financial succour from him. However, at his insistence, when we came back, we spent three weeks together in France. When we were down under we had missed the Parisian scene that we previously revelled in, and I certainly came back from across the Channel refreshed.
I sent word to Mr Holmes when we arrived and we met in Victoria Embankment Gardens. I remembered with great fondness the balmy nights in the limpid waters south of the equator off the Zanzibar coast where we spent many a night together on the deck of the Horatio as the fragrant Indian Ocean breeze wafted past us. I will treasure the memory of how we looked into each other’s eyes in the moonlight as he told me all about the monograph he meant to write on the correlation between the shapes of the heads of criminals and their specialities. Our ways parted once Algernon arrived. I gathered that he had returned to Baker Street a few months before us, much to the joy of the good doctor who had thought his great friend and mentor had died with Moriarty at the falls. It was cruel of Holmes to let him believe in his demise, but the great man does not feel in the same manner as us ordinary mortals. I have been told that I can act callously too, so who am I to say what is right or wrong?
He greeted me with great warmth although he tried not to show it. His whole face seemed illuminated the moment he caught sight of me and came towards me. He raised both arms, and for a moment I thought he was going to break his rule and actually wrap me in his arms and embrace me fondly, albeit in a brotherly fashion. I saw him change his mind and was grateful that he had at least been contemplating the notion. As a compromise he took both my arms in his. When he stopped a few paces away, he dropped his hands, stood rigidly to attention.‘Miss Adler, I hope I see you well,’ he said laconically. Although my arms were in readiness for a little Holmesian squeeze, I debated with myself for a whole second about whether I should not take the initiative and seize his arms. But we’ve now been in this new century for a few years and nothing much seems to have changed. He raised his right arm and with it encircled my aura, with tactile contact at least one inch away. He guided me towards a bench opposite the pond where we seated ourselves.
‘Miss Adler, I hope I see you well,’ he repeated.
‘As well as can be Mr Holmes, and may I enquire if you share this happy state with me?’ He turned round and twitched his lips for almost twice the duration of his usual wan smile. After the usual exchanges about the doctor, Mycroft, the London crime wave and enquiries into what we had each been doing, he mentioned that with Moriarty dead, Moran was now making a name for himself, with a fresh crop of villains.
‘Whereas Moriarty was ruthless in the pursuit of his dastardly schemes, he had too logical a mind to waste his energies in gratuitous violence. This fellow Moran exults in the practice of terror for its own sake,’ my companion said, shaking his head wistfully. It was the closest he would come to admitting that he was already missing his old enemy.
‘What are your plans?’ he asked. I hesitated, unsure if I should be frank with him, but decided that within limits I would play a straight bat. After all we had saved each other’s lives. I owned to having met my old friends.
‘So you will be up to your old tricks?’
‘Old tricks? I don’t know what you mean, I’m sure, Mr Holmes, but if you are referring to our determination to fight injustice by any means, including unconventional ones, then the answer must be yes.’
‘I must warn you, Miss Adler. You and I have rather different views of the meaning of the word justice. Although I have much respect and...’ I knew the next word on his tongue was affection but he could not make himself say it, ‘eh...respect.’ He repeated this to make sure he repudiated himself for nearly using the dreaded word affection. ‘Should I be called upon to look into one of your misdemeanours, you must be in no doubt where my duty will lie.’
‘We hate the same things,’ I said.
‘You don’t execrate theft,’ he said turning away.
‘Mr Holmes, pray let us not argue. You know very well we never steal but from corrupt bankers and politicians, extortionate businessmen, insurance fraudsters, brokers—’
‘Miss Adler,’ he interrupted me, ‘who are we to say who is corrupt and who deserves our protection? It is my job to catch evildoers. That leaves me no time to ponder the grand philosophical questions.’ After a short pause he added, ‘Not that I pride myself on my inability to do so.’
‘In that case, knowing you are on our trail, we will have to be ever so vigilant,’ I said with a laugh. He turned towards me and gave me a double dose twitch of the lips and a nod.
‘Since you mentioned that new lot of villains operating in London, I daresay you will not see my entering the business of crim
e-fighting as unfair rivalry?’
‘Hmm, is that your plan?’ I nodded. Then looking at me in the eyes he said, as if to himself. ‘But you are a girl.’ I wondered whether I’d ever feel bold enough to call him “boy”.
‘I was aware of that, Mr Holmes,’ I laughed. ‘My mother reminded me of the fact often enough.’ I paused before asking, ‘Is that an impediment?’
I was surprised at the reasoned exposition of his views. He did not think I was ill-equipped to deal with any eventuality. He thought I had great instincts for deduction, was crafty, even devious, he was pleased to add. As such, I would be almost as good as him. He suggested, however, that people in need of the sort of help that he or I might provide would have as lief seek the help of some of the male charlatans purporting to offer the same services before coming to ‘... a person of the weaker sex.’ He shook his head. ‘No, Miss Adler, you won’t make a living by honest means. Of course it’s unfair, if you will allow me.’
I admitted to not having explored the economic aspect of my intended venture. So, you do not advise it, I asked wearily, but not ready to throw in the towel.
‘Oh no, dear Miss Adler, I didn’t say that.’ I stared at him and it took me ten seconds to guess what he was going to say.
‘You are obviously a mistress of disguise,’ he began, confirming my conjecture. I nodded, saying nothing. He placed his hands around my face without touching it, twisting them round indicating that he wished me to turn my head and I acquiesced. He peered at it intensely as if I was a prospective exhibit at a cattle sale and nodded.
‘You are tall for a woman, but you do have a very feminine...shall I say structure?’ I was glad he had noticed.
‘Strangely for someone as resourceful as your good self and...so ready to take the bull by the horn, and I mean this literally...’ A rare flicker of a smile here. ‘Everything else about you is ladylike. I could offer you some hints on the intricacies of the disguise, but as you used to grace our London planks, and have amply demonstrated your perfect handling of the art, I can see you need no lessons from me.’
‘You’re suggesting that I could turn into a man?’
‘I’ve noticed that whenever a woman finds herself in any sort of peril her voice becomes less high pitched.’ I would have thought the contrary was the case. ‘I think this is a natural mechanism aiming at taking some distance from your natural feminine persona...you should work on this, I am sure—’
‘Actually Mr Holmes, you may recall that I was reckoned to be a tolerably good actress with a range of voices,’ I interrupted his flow, but he might not have heard.
‘I’ve even got the perfect name for you…eh…Dai Lernière. French father and a mother from the Valleys, eh? For some reason I have yet to discover, the Welsh have an undeserved reputation for honesty. This will work in your favour.’ I was liking his line of thought, but he had not finished.
‘And I will naturally direct clients to you. There are times when twenty-four hours a day are not enough to cope with demands.’ Naturally.
‘Mr Holmes I am grateful for everything you have said. All that’s left for me is to seek premises.’
‘Capital idea. You are a marked woman and your Water Lane sanctuary must be kept secret. As must your true identity.’
I had gone back to my old room in Water Lane as I needed to reconnect with the Club. Armande was as dear to me as the older sister I never had. Algernon found me a small office with a front room and an even smaller box room at the back, in Warren Street. It was tiny but clean and airy. I had not yet advertised my services in the press, but Artémise Traverson did a splendid name plate: DAI LERNIÈRE, Private Investigator, in varnished mahogany. I knew that I would need time before I built up my practice and established myself. It was the talented Traverson again who designed my moustache and my suit, leaving the rest to Bartola who was making an honest living as a modiste in Leigh Court Road in genteel Streatham. It must have worked well, for when Algie saw me for the first time in this guise, his eyes popped out and he began to stammer incoherently. It turned out he was reminding me we were legally husband and wife and that as such, he had rights. And he was not joking. I went out in the streets accompanied by our thespian friend Probert. When we stopped in a working man’s pub and ordered a drink, nobody looked twice at us. It was this which convinced us that I would have no difficulty passing for Dai.
In the meantime, as a fully committed member of the Club des As, I was privy to, and part of all the schemes being elaborated and knew we would not contemplate anything wildly illegal. Never more than a raid on an extortionate money lender, a millionaire art dealer, that sort of thing.
The Club had only once approved of a killing. That was of the infamous child murderer Lord Stonehead, after it had become clear that the police were in awe of him and were not prepared to act even in the knowledge of his many infamies. After his execution in Ashridge forest, we had discussed it at great length and although we had not completely ruled out such actions, we vowed that we would contemplate another draconian venture only under exceptional circumstances.
I was decorating my new office one morning when there was a knock on the door. I was expecting our fellow reprobate the Bishop who was coming over to help me shift the massive teak desk and clean the ceiling. Although the plaque had been fixed to the door for the whole world to see, we were not ready for business. I was therefore not expecting any clients yet. To my surprise I opened the door to a pale and distraught young woman, looking to be in her thirties, I daresay. She stared at me and started blinking. ‘B-b-but you are a woman, Mr Holmes didn’t say,’ she blurted out. A fact that I could obviously not deny. I smiled and asked what she wanted.
‘Mr Holmes said Mr Lernière was the best—’
‘Indeed he is, so it’s Mr Lernière you wish to see, obviously.’ I said putting on a big act of surprise. ‘I am Miss Ida Lernière, sister and secretary.’ I was pleased with my quick reflexes. No doubt Hugh Probert would have been proud of my acting propensity. ‘He’s in the building somewhere, I’ll go get him. Please take a seat.’ What was I to do? I wasted no time in our little box room, transforming myself into Dai in record time, re-emerged into the office and sat myself behind my desk. I noticed that my visitor was very upset. Turning round to face the empty back-room I shouted, ‘Ida, please make a cup of tea for Miss... sorry, you didn’t introduce yourself.’
‘Selbow, Mrs Rosa Selbow,’ she said blinking at a rate of knots.‘You’re very kind but no thank you, sir, I do not want any tea.’ I was in luck.
‘Now Mrs Selbow, I am Mr Lernière, what can I do for you?’ I was pleased the voice came out right. The poor thing was silent for a while, unable to muster the strength to open her mouth. A combination of deep breathing and blinking must have helped, for she was now more composed. She began telling me a tale of the sort that I had often encountered before, of a husband who gambled, drank and spent every night with other women. On top of everything he bullied and beat her regularly.
‘And in what manner can we be of service to you? Are you planning to divorce him?’ She said nothing and began to sob quietly.
‘Do you want evidence of adultery that you can take to a court of law?’ She looked at me like a cornered beast, her eyes still blinking.
‘Yes, Mr Lernière, but he’s a judge, you see, and all the judges are his friends. He’ll tell lies about me and they’ll go along with them. I’ll end up getting nothing. I want a settlement so I can start a nursery school and make a living. With my friend Miss Ursula Verdi.’ A fresh stock of tears had gathered behind her orb, but stifling them she managed to add, ‘He will do everything in his power to stop me leaving him—’
‘So he still loves you?’
‘He never loved me. He only married me to have someone take care of his children.’ She smiled as she told me about them. She was clearly a good stepmother.
I asked her a few questions and wrote her answers in my notebook (which I had fortunately already provided myself
with). As she was leaving I nearly forgot myself and was on the point of giving her a sisterly hug, but did a Sherlock Holmes, just managing to stop short of any real contact. The moment Rosa’s back was turned to me, I noticed to my horror that I was wearing my fetching crocodile skin shoes with their two-inch heels. Fortunately Rosa had been too upset to notice anything.
I was at my desk, scribbling ideas about how to tackle the problem of Rosa Selbow when there was another knock at the door. Unexpectedly it was Algie Clarihoe, my lawful spouse. The moment he walked in he threw me one of those rakish looks suggesting we changed the status of our mariage blanc. I shook a finger at him playfully, saying, ‘Algie, watch it!’
‘I know what you want, you hussy, you,’ he winked, ‘but we have no time and your office is too small. Anyway, I come with sad tidings.’ In spite of his pleasant tone, I knew that he was serious. He made for the chair behind my desk and I took the seat still warm from Rosa Selbow’s contact.
‘It’s Roger,’ he said. I knew who he meant. Sir Roger Casement was a dear friend of his and he had been very much in the news in the last few months. ‘They have made up their minds they want to hang him for treason,’ he said glumly.
‘Ha!’ I said with what no doubt could be described as a wicked laugh. ‘Why? Has he been plotting against Ireland?’ The Club had decidedly unpatriotic views when it came to the Irish question. Algie smiled wistfully and shook his head.
‘Did I tell you why Roger turned against the British establishment?’ he asked. Of course he had. This has been the subject of many a conversation around the dinner table in Water Lane, even before my escape to New South Wales. It did not stop my friend.
Casement came from a staunchly loyal Protestant family in Dublin and had no truck with republicanism or independence, Algie began. I nodded vigorously to indicate that I knew all that, but he seemed to take this as a signal to keep going. After brilliant university studies Casement ended up in the British diplomatic service, where he impressed his superiors by his quick grasp of facts and their implications. By now I had resigned myself to letting the dear man wax lyrical about his good friend.
The Memoirs of Irene Adler: The Irene Adler Trilogy Page 1
