The Memoirs of Irene Adler: The Irene Adler Trilogy

by San Cassimally

  ‘Algie, it’s so unlike you to give up without a fight. Remember those famous words: “So it’s difficult, so what do we do, so do we throw up our arms and give in? No, mes amis, so we think harder.” ’

  ‘Yes,’ smiled my friend/husband. ‘Dear old Armande.’

  ‘I cannot think of a solution at the moment, dear husband, but I promise you that if you will let me sleep on it, I will find an idea which might even work.’ I believe Lord Clarihoe was a little bit more cheerful when he left.

  I do not believe that when you are searching for an idea, sitting down with your head in your hands in the pose of Monsieur Rodin’s Le Penseur, which we had only recently seen in Paris, makes it easier for you to find the solution. I am increasingly convinced of Dr Freud’s notion of ideas and creative juices being something over which one had no control, that it is all in the gift of the unconscious? No, the subconscious. You sow the seed and leave it. All a sudden, you are immersed in something entirely different when, lo and behold, you see a flash. The sesame seed has sprouted and doors open. Like Bartola discovering the link between Dai Lernière and Irene Adler. So, first I sent a note to Algie, asking him not to neglect his investigation of the Hanging Judge. Having changed into my alter ego of Dai Lernière, like in Mr Stevenson’s famous novel which had kept us all enthralled in Water Lane, I went back on the trail of Rosa Selbow. I took the chance and found my way to Ossulton Street at a time when his Lordship was likely to be rubbing his hands in glee in his court, in the expectation of an early opportunity of wearing his black cap again. Rosa opened the door herself and was quite surprised to see me.

  She suggested we went into the library which might not be as comfortable as the parlour, but which would be more appropriate for a serious parley. It was an impressive room with awesome leather-bound tomes exuding their own distinct blend of old age, wisdom and varnish. The large tables with massive rococo legs were brightly polished.

  ‘How’s your sister?’ she asked. I had no immediate idea of who she meant, and looked at her rather stupidly.

  ‘Your secretary, your sister Miss Ida Lernière.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t catch what you said. Well, yes, she is well... holding the fort in my absence,’ I said cheerily. ‘Our enquiries about your husband haven’t so far revealed anything reprehensible, Mrs Selbow, but one of my men is working on it.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said curtly, ‘I was so much hoping that you would be able to find some...weakness.’

  ‘But we will, we will. If your suspicions are right and he does commit all those scandalous acts, they will not escape our lynx-eyed investigators.’

  ‘I was so much hoping ...’ she was unable to finish her sentence.

  ‘Could you perhaps be more specific? Do please tell us everything you know.’

  ‘I was so much hoping ... you see, I do not know anything for sure. What I told you ... you must pardon me for misleading you ... they were just suspicions, rumours. I must own that I lied when I said that he comes home drunk. Fact is he’s quite abstemious,’ she added after looking away. ‘I’m afraid I made it all up to ... to ...’ she was unable to finish the sentence.

  ‘Oh!’ I said, ‘but he beats you, you said no man was crueller.’ Rosa looked at me defiantly.

  ‘Mr Lernière, sir, one does not have to lift a finger to crush someone. My husband does it with his looks, with his sneer, with his words. Oh, if only you knew the power of words, sir. The hurt that they cause stings more than the whip. They penetrate your soul and eat into you to the extent that you begin to doubt your humanity’ She was speaking with such feeling that although to begin with I was angry with her for misleading me, I readily understood what made her tell those lies. With genuine tears she told me a tale of unhappiness, the like of which I have rarely heard.

  The judge only married her to have someone to look after his two children after his wife died.

  ‘I am sure she killed herself,’ said Rosa without giving any evidence for this supposizione. ‘He drove her to self-immolation. He must have.’

  Rosa’s father, Arthur Feathers, had been a junior clerk in some second-rate chambers and the prospect of marrying his daughter to judiciary royalty had made him force her to accept this man whose very sight she found repulsive. No, she did not mean that he was ugly, she said, but that he is just the sort of man you want to enter your room in the middle of a heatwave, she said. I did not follow.

  ‘I mean the moment he walks into a room the temperature drops by a good few degrees.’ I could not help smiling. He was sarcastic and mocked her all the time. He loved the boy Maurice and had no time for little Emmeline. Rosa had done everything in her power to make the children happy. She was pleased to say that she had established the most excellent rapport with them. No, she did not claim to be a second mother to them. She had tried but it had not worked. Instead, she concentrated on being a good friend and teacher and that worked better. When the divorce comes through she knows that she will miss them.

  Rosa Feathers had studied very hard to earn her Teaching Certificate. The limit of her ambition had always been to become a teacher. Marriage was never something she contemplated. She never understood the other girls at school or Training College who were always casting furtive glances in the direction of the boys, whispering remarks about how good-looking they were. ‘I was very much the exception’, she claimed. ‘I and Ursula Verdi. The two of us, we could never understand.’

  ‘Oh yes, you said you were hoping that a divorce settlement from your husband would go towards the creation of your own nursery school, to be run by you and Miss Verdi, am I right?’ I asked. She nodded and explained that they had already seen a house on Primrose Hill which seemed ideal for the purpose, with a room upstairs for each of them and ample space on the ground floor, as well as a play area in the garden.

  ‘You and Miss Verdi would then live together?’ I asked innocently, but Rosa Selbow’s vehement protest took me by surprise.

  ‘Sir, I’ll have you know that this is England, not France.’ She looked at me with ill-disguised hostility. ‘We were both brought up as devout Christians and I swear that we have never indulged in anything like like... eh...like you seem to be...to be...’ I did not point out that I had not suggested anything. ‘And I swear,’ she went on, ‘that if we do plan to share a house, it is purely on practical grounds. We’ve been friends for years, I mean we’re both ... we will both be spinsters without family, and in need of a roof, and as we happen—’

  ‘Mrs Selbow, please forgive me, I did not for one moment think that you might be planning to lead an ... unconventional life,’ I lied. ‘I expressed myself badly.’ I was now convinced I understood the situation: she was in a loveless marriage and wanted out. Husband was a bully, but there was not (yet) any evidence that might make a divorce action against him feasible. He was after all a man of laws. Rosa was clutching at straws and had approached me, feeding me lies, in the hope that I might discover some sort of evidence which would make her wish realisable. My initial reaction was one of disapproval as no one likes being lied to, but it took me no more than a few minutes to readjust my opinion. In her desperation, knowing the dice to be loaded against her, the wretched woman had seen no alternative. Who does not clutch at straws when they are sinking? Why did we create the Club des As? Unless we do everything we can to help the underprivileged, we are nothing. Wasn’t that what Armande had said? Or was it Bartola?

  Algie, preoccupied as he was, by his friend Roger’s case, had not yet been able to find anything useful for us, but he was visiting me in the afternoon. I made it clear to Mrs Selbow that I was on her side and that I would try very hard to help her. I would never cast aspersions at a woman wanting to end her marriage with an unsatisfactory husband, to start a relationship with another woman if that was what she wished. I reserve my contempt for the man, who because of his position in life, uses his powers to belittle others, let alone his own wife. In my eyes such a man is a contemptible coward, and I would not hesitate to put
a spoke in his wheel - or poke a finger in his eye. I would naturally much prefer to help Rosa legally, but if that were not possible, I might have recourse to other ways. I spent a sleepless night tossing about in my bed sweating, feeling frustrated at my inability to find a way out.

  I felt better in the morning and made my way to Warren Street. I usually change into Dai before leaving Water Lane now, which was lucky because I had no sooner brewed another cup of tea when Algie came in with a friend he introduced to me as Dr Arthur Ignatius Conan. He was an immaculately dressed and his impressive moustache made my fake one whisper to me to hide them in my mouth. ‘Arthur, do let me introduce my wife Irene,’ said Clarihoe. ‘Irene, Dr Conan.’ I noticed what humorous eyes the man had. Obviously Algie had complete trust in this Dr Conan. He told me that he had known Conan for a long time and that he was a thoroughly dependable friend and ally.

  We sat round my desk with cups of tea and Algie intimated that he had a purpose in bringing his friend to visit me. Arthur was a dedicated campaigner for justice, and had indeed been the guiding force behind the actions which had seen justice done to George Ehadji.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said, remembering the case of the Parsi doctor wrongly accused of maliciously lacerating horses. ‘You must be the author of the Professor Challenger books?’

  ‘Yes, he writes under the name of Conan Doyle,’ said Clarihoe.

  ‘Ha, ha,’ Dr Conan laughed, ‘my little indulgences.’

  ‘The man simply cannot rest,’ said my husband. ‘Since his patients choose not to visit him in the night, he needs to find meaningful occupation. He gets on his horse and fights windmills. Obviously that’s not enough, because he does not need sleep like us ordinary mortals, so, since the pen is mightier than the sword he writes those fascinating books. He has a brain the size of his native city, the Auld Reekie. I know you read The Lost World, dear Heart, you told me you enjoyed it very much.’

  ‘Lord Clarihoe always exaggerates,’ said Dr Conan blushing and laughing.

  ‘I wanted you to meet him,’ said Algie. ‘Once again, he’s picked up his cudgels in order to save our friend Sir Roger.’

  ‘Your husband has often talked about you, your ladyship, but I didn’t know you two were married. I have always wanted to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Algie has told me that you have unique mental resources which can be put to good use. You need to be aware of what’s being done to save Sir Roger’s neck if you are to make a contribution to the cause.’

  ‘Have you considered writing about Sir Roger’s great record as a government official in Africa for the newspapers, like you did in the case of Edalji?’ I asked.

  ‘Ha, indeed I thought of that, but The Daily Telegraph which supported the Parsi man has no truck with what they consider unpatriotic.’

  At the moment, Doyle continued, all they were able to do was enlisting worthy men to the cause. They were using whatever influence they had, to acquire signatures petitioning His Majesty.

  ‘That nincompoop,’ Algie spat out.

  ‘We know that he is not very keen on clemency,’ continued Doyle. ‘He is known to have said that the Irish insurrection was directed against him, but if we manage to get some very powerful people to affix their signatures to our document, then he may be forced to think again.’ He then went on to talk about Casement’s fake “Black Diaries” which his enemies are circulating facsimile copies of.’ I noticed Algie making signs to me to keep my mouth shut. Obviously he knew that they were genuine, but he had thought it more sagacious to keep the innocent Conan Doyle in the dark.

  ‘The “Black Diaries” are said to be a journal kept by Sir Roger about his encounters with handsome Black youths for sexual gratification, I ask you!’ At this point he picked the cup of tea and noisily drank half of it in one go.

  ‘However, succour is at hand. I gather you used to know Mr Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street?’ he asked. I nodded.

  ‘And you know his brother Mr Mycroft Holmes?’

  ‘I know of him, but we haven’t met.’

  ‘Anyway, this fellow Mycroft...possibly you know all this, he is purported to be an adviser to the Cabinet, but he is known to indulge in some, shall I say occult, activities. You know, all under cover, hush hush, for the government.’

  ‘I’ve heard that.’

  ‘Now I must entreat you never to reveal this to any soul, as the information was given to me under an oath of secrecy. This fellow Mycroft has approached Sherlock with facsimiles of this damned document, asking him to authenticate it.’ He paused to allow his information to sink in, and committed the remnant of the tea in his mouth and gulped it down.

  ‘Ha!’ he said, his humorous eyes in which I read great generosity of spirit lighting up. But they are playing into our hands. Holmes will indubitably confirm our conviction that they are fakes and confound their impudent lies.’ I saw Algie pull a face in my direction, making sure our eminent visitor did not catch our drift. This news produced the opposite effect on us, but we kept our counsels to ourselves.

  ‘But there is a small hitch. One of his cases has forced Holmes to go to Suffolk, but he has promised to be back in two days and will immediately set to work on the facsimile on his return.’ We breathed again.

  ‘I hope it won’t be too late then?’ Algie said, but Mr Doyle assured us that on account of people in America having voiced their sympathy for the Irishman, the authorities, forever mindful of their good names across the Atlantic will not rush into things.

  ‘Although we seem to be taking the upper hand, Miss Adler ... eh your ladyship, we mustn’t assume anything. In my estimation, our opponents do not give up easily. Besides, they are well-known for their love of the belt.’

  ‘What do you mean, Conan?’ Our visitor’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

  ‘Oh, yes, the belt. They love it so they know below what to hit.’ Algie guffawed and the author of The Lost World nodded merrily.

  ‘There is always the risk that they will contest his expertise. Or they might mislay Sherlock Holmes’ report. Anything is possible. So my dear lady, in the name of the Justice for Casement Committee, I urge you to think of ways which might strengthen our case.’

  ‘I will try of course, Mr Doyle. I am honoured that you think I am capable of making a contribution.’ The famous author nodded, looked at his watch and indicated that he ought to be leaving. He picked up his hat which he had placed on the stand, but I could not let him go before asking him a question.

  ‘Mr Doyle, tell me this please: Professor Challenger strikes me as being so authentic, I mean his mannerisms, his speech patterns and everything. It is as if you were describing a real person. I can almost see him, so vivid is his description.’ The famous campaigner seemed heartened by this. ‘My dear lady, I am honoured that you have recognised this. I based him on my own Professor William Rutherford to whom I owe what little human physiology I had to learn to become a medical practitioner.’ He bowed to me. Algie saw him to the door. I was thrilled by this meeting and the upshot was that they had no sooner turned their backs on me than an idea had sprouted in my head.

  Later Algie arrived and we discussed my plan of action. He immediately approved of it.

  Number 221B would be unattended! Having obtained the intelligence from Mr Doyle himself that its occupant had gone to Suffolk, I jumped on a tram and made my way to Baker Street. Algie undertook to find Artémise and Bartola and bring them to Warren Street. We were going to do what we had already done once before, when Clarihoe was being blackmailed by that puppy, Douglas Mill de la Marelle.

  I hadn’t the least difficulty entering the premises as Mr Holmes has that self-assurance common among powerful people that no one would dare trifle with them. I should advise him to use more secure locks—not that they would have stopped me. Once inside, I located the facsimiles I had come for without difficulty, for he never changes his habits. I rushed to Warren Street with my finds and was disappointed that none of my three accomplices had yet arrived.

&
nbsp; I lit a powerful gas lamp as I wanted to study the documents I had just purloined. One was the defiant speech the Irishman had made to the tribunal, in which he protests against the jurisdiction of the Court and claims that his argument was addressed not to the English Court, whose jurisdiction he did not recognise, but to his own Irish countrymen. My first observation was that the characters often varied in size. The other facsimile was of the passage in his diary where he writes about the feelings aroused in him at the sight of a young Congolese wrestler’s muscular rear. The similarity was striking. No one would fail to recognise the two as having been written by the same person. The only difference I could detect was that the ink in the speech was black and fresh with the letters boldly formed, whereas the diary was sepia and had faded a bit. This struck me as natural seeing that the latter specimen was older and had at the same time probably deteriorated in the conditions prevalent in the tropics.

  When the others arrived, we sat down, Traverson, Bartola and I and pored over the documents. After looking at the individual letters in each case, and other factors like the spaces between words, the slants, we were unanimous in our opinion that they were written by the same person, confirming our fear that the diaries were genuine. I proposed that Traverson helped me create a fake copy of the page which Bartola would then take to a photographer she knew in the Elephant and Castle to obtain another reproduction. I would then stealthily re-introduce this in Sherlock Holmes’ drawer where I had found the original, before he returned from Suffolk.

  Artémise and I copied a sample of the letters onto a large sheet of paper, and then we worked on subverting them in such a way that on the surface the two specimens would look similar, but a closer scrutiny which Mr Holmes would indubitably subject them to, would reveal striking differences. Mr Reynolds asked me to append an illustration of the facsimiles used, and my faithful readers will see for themselves what we were trying to do. It was Mr Reynolds who said that one photograph has greater power than a thousand words. The discerning reader would wish to spend some time studying the chart below and will note, for example how Sir Roger never entirely closes his ‘a’ or his ‘o’. In our reproduction, we naturally keep the shape but close them.