‘Ha! Excellent point, But how would I know that the gold—’ he begins.
‘You will be given the chance to take a peep of course.’
At the appointed time next day, Clarihoe (wearing a fake beard) and I (in my Count von Klapisberg disguise), who are accustomed to the best seats at the Opera, are seated in a choice corner of the Parasol, waiting for the show to begin, indulging in the best that the establishment had to offer, when Ivan walks in with a brown valise, scarcely giving us a nod. He sits opposite us, at a table which he had instructed Gastron—his real name was Gaston, but our nick-name for him was short for Gastronomique—to reserve for him and a friend. Shortly after Golightly arrives and is ushered towards the table where the Russian was waiting. The valises are side by side, the banker’s standing on one of its sides whilst Ivan had placed his lying down on its flat side, with its top ready for opening. The busy clientèle, too absorbed by Gastron’s delights never aim a single glance at the two conspirators—or at the two of us. I notice that the flap of the locks of Ivan’s suitcase are unclasped, and I see him deftly flick it open with a furtive movement of his left foot, revealing a shiny golden surface not incompatible with its consisting of eight kilo bars resting on another layer of the same. He then digs his companion in the ribs to draw his attention to the contents. Golightly looks intently and nods. By another well-aimed kick the Russian closes the lid. He bends down as if to fasten his shoe, and at the same time locks the case. By a sleight of hand he drops the keys next to Golightly’s plate.
At the end of this rigmarole, the two men were ready to leave. I saw Ivan pick up the case with the cash and Golightly the other one. A smile brightened his face as he acknowledged the plausible weight of his new possession. He followed our friend out. The reader will have discovered that what the old slave-trader thought was gold, was gold-plated iron resting on a bed of lead sheeting in order to make up for the forty pounds that the real gold bars would have weighed—a precaution we took in the event that the wily banker had sufficient experience of gold to, in Armande’s parlance, smell the garlic.
That night as we were celebrating the second part of our triumph, when Armande challenged us.
‘So the concept of Honour Amongst Thieves is désuet et rédondant?’
I, for one, had absolutely no qualms about our action. ‘No, dear Armande, honour amongst thieves is alive and well, but if Golightly and his lot are thieves, we are ... what d’you call it? Justiciers.
‘Fair play bestowed on a slave-trader is like giving wine to a nondrinker.’ said Bartola with absolute finality.
he events in this story took place when I was still living at Water Lane and our paths, Sherlock Holmes’ and mine, had not yet crossed as far as he knew. But of course unbeknownst to him, they had, in the affair of the Millais forgery as well as in the famous Mill de la Marelle v. Clarihoe case.
The tale I am about to recount involved murder and blackmail, sexual misconduct, political skulduggery, events that had the potential of doing untold damage to the government and the monarchy. Once again I would be crossing swords with the man from Baker Street, albeit with the foils on. But let me start at the beginning.
One Friday evening, Armande my dear friend and landlady with whom I lodged in Water Lane, Brixton, and I, had just finished our light supper of leek soup, which no one in the whole wide world makes better than her, and Cheddar cheese (Fortnum and Mason’s best) with black bread, a love for which my dear father had passed on to me, when Lord Clarihoe arrived in a state of great excitement. Even before he greeted us and asked after us or even kissed us on the cheeks, a charming practice inaugurated by my dear French landlady, he burst out, ‘I tell you dear ladies, I never! Honestly I never!’
‘You never what, dear Aljernonne,’ said Armande.
‘No, honestly, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d never have believed it even if your pope in Rome had told me.’ Shaking his head, he added, ‘Sherlock Holmes of all people!’ Armande literally pushed him in a chair, and like a mother dealing with her indignant son just arrived from school after a scolding from his teacher, asked him to calm down and speak more coherently.
‘You would never have believed it, you said, Aljernonne. Assurément “it” refeurs to somsing, but since you ’ave not defined it first, we are, comment dit-on? in ze dark. So take a dip bress and tell us why you are so ajitated.’ Ah, the French are so Cartesian, I thought.
From what I knew of Mr Holmes, neither would I have given credence to what Algie was about to reveal: that the great Sherlock Holmes had visited the Male Bordello in Cleveland Street. Admittedly it operated as a Turkish Bath and indeed had a large sign outside describing it as such. Now my naughty Uranian husband-to-be had never hidden from us that he sometimes availed himself of the sexual services of some pretty young mignons or rent boys in that establishment. In spite of our constantly urging him to find himself a handsome young fellow to visit his carnal passion upon, he showed no inclination to follow our advice. We suspected that in spite of the potentially ruinous court case Mill de la Marelle had brought against him, he still loved the young scamp.
He said to me once. ‘I satisfy my animal urges by paying professionals and emotionally I have you, whom I love dearer than life itself. ‘Ah, Irene, if only you were a chap!’
‘I am the happiest man alive. I have the best of both worlds, and I am greatly comforted in the knowledge that you and I will spend our old age together.’
Shortly before noon yesterday, Algie said after he had calmed down, he had made his way to that den of iniquity and was chatting to the young fellow who had caught his fancy when who should walk in but-
‘Don’t tell us,’ Armande and I shouted in unison, ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street himself.’
‘Can you believe it?’ Clarihoe asked.
‘I know you never tell lies, Algie,’ I said winking at my French companion. ‘We believe anything you say, don’t we Armande?’
‘One ’undred pour cent ... we are... what’s the word? gollibol, non?’ She meant to say gullible.
Algie and Brooksie his young partner were walking arm in arm to their alcove when he espied Holmes some distance away, who he recognised immediately, following another young man, both with towels wrapped around them. Holmes blushed when he saw our friend, vaguely knowing who he was, and looked away.
‘Can you believe that?’
‘Yes, yes,’ teased Armande, ‘we’ve bin through all zat already.’
‘What do you make of it?’ Clarihoe asked.
My answer was perhaps disingenuous. ‘If a man visits a bordello and has picked a prostitute, male or female, I would find it very difficult not to arrive at the conclusion that they were going to indulge in some sexual activity, but naturally I wouldn’t dream of saying that there might not be another explanation.’
‘Yes of course, Irene, but...’ he trailed off.
‘Mind you,’ said Armande with that endearing touch of naiveté that she often displays, ‘he might ’ave walked in there believing it to be only a Turkish Bath, non?’
Later, we would discover that Mr Holmes’ visit to the den of iniquity was indeed not to seek illicit sexual gratification, but something he was doing in the line of duty.
Three weeks earlier, a young postal clerk, Fred Edshott was found floating in the Thames near Battersea Bridge. It was after a verdict of suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed was arrived at, that Lloyd’s Weekly and the Pall Mall Gazette started printing an avalanche of stories about Portland Street Post Office clerks topping up their meagre earnings by working for Mr Hammond in the Cleveland Street bordello as male prostitutes to the aristocracy, who seemed to have a predilection for such indulgences.
Mr Henry Hales of the Gazette, encouraged by his editor Mr W.T. Stead, repeatedly highlighted the proliferation of these so-called houses of leisures which operated under the very nose of the complicit Metropolitan Police, often offering minors of either sex to their clients. My Algie
would never exploit innocent children, I can swear to that. The patrons were often pillars of the establishment.
‘The police in zis countrey will transport a poor man to Australia for stealing a loff but will look the ozeur way when those goddamned aristocrats seduce mineurs,’ Armande often said in spite of our assuring her that transportation had stopped fifty years ago.
Holmes was still in his slippers and morning gown when his brother Mycroft had appeared at Number 221B one Tuesday. Although the brothers had a cordial relationship, neither was much given to overt effusions of fraternal love. Sherlock was pleased whenever the shadowy figure turned up, but this was mixed with a vague sense of foreboding, for he knew that he would be bound to lose some of his freedom of action, even to the extent of having to put cases currently under investigation in abeyance because he was unable to deny his brother the absolute priority that he demanded. Further the man who saw himself as the soul of discretion disliked having to sign the oath of secrecy that his brother usually put in front of him. The elder Holmes was often acting under the directives of the highest powers in the land, in matters concerning the interest and security of our kingdom.
I was obviously not privy to these facts while the events were unfolding, but I have been able to reconstruct them, and am now presenting them to my readers as honestly as I can, in some sort of sequential order.
‘Have you seen this?’ Mycroft asked, handing over a copy of the Daily Post to Sherlock.
‘Although I hate gutter journalism, oh, venerable wise one,’ said the detective, ‘if I am to carry out my humble trade to the best of my ability, I need to keep abreast with what’s going on in this world. So yes, I have read this.’
‘Then you will know what they say about this Welsh firebrand?’
‘David Lloyd George? Yes, I do.’ The Daily Post had run a series of articles informing its readers about this charismatic (their word) campaigner for irresponsible reforms (also the Post’s description), a semi-literate demagogue (he had an excellent education) from the Welsh valleys (he was born in Manchester), a dangerous radical who although not yet a member of parliament, had expressed outrageous views on the hustings and whose agenda was very clear: to turn this green and pleasant land into the Bolshevik Republic of Britain. The people in the valleys are blindly swallowing everything he spouts, and everywhere he is greeted as a sort of Messiah. It is feared that inevitably, the rest of the nation will follow suit. The editorial maintained that there was not the slightest doubt that his pernicious rhetoric was contaminating public opinion and advised that everything be done to stop him gaining a foothold in Westminster, without necessarily suggesting that he be taken to the Tower—or Tyburn.
The Post further warned that Russia would soon be in the throes of a revolution and that it was the aim of Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, the demented leader of the Bolshevik faction to turn his guns on the rest of Europe once his initial aim had been achieved, because these people won’t be satisfied until the whole of Europe concurred with their insidious ideology. To this effect they have placed men sympathetic to their causes in strategic positions, Lloyd George being their man over here.
‘Obviously the author of this piece meant invidious, not insidious,’ Sherlock commented laconically.
‘Quite,’ said Mycroft. ‘What do you make of it, runt?’
‘Poppycock, O wise one, I am surprised you asked. Nobody would fall for that nonsense.’
‘The Viscount doesn’t think so. He has a low opinion of the people of this country,’ said the government adviser with a shrug and a pout, which left his brother wondering what Mycroft’s own views might be. The visitor smiled mischievously, and handed a small bundle of papers to his brother, instructing him by a sign of the hand to have a look. They were facsimiles of letters in an irregular handwriting, the lines sometimes slanting upwards whilst others took a plunge. No two letters were the same size or shape. The top the two sheets bore the crest of the Prince of Wales and the signatures at the bottom were Victor Albert, Wales. The first one was addressed to the Prime Minister in a black spidery scrawl.
Dear Gledstone,
I was not very amused by the singlar lack of curtesy which you paid to my last letter to you on workers’ rights. I stressed to you that, than me, no one in this kingdom wishes less to see our workers leave in misery, but I warned you about the dangers of playing God. Poverty cannot be eliminated overnight. In my capacity as future ruler, I have long reflected on progress, and let me remind you that it is a slow process and canot be expected to hapen overnight. Your comunication to me to the effect that your cabinet would give my concerns their utmost attention did not produce any result. You went ahead with your wreckless reforms, which I daresay you will have cause to regret.
However the main cause of this letter is to inform you that it has come to my notice that a certain David Lloyd George, a member of your own Liberal Party has been causing quite a stir on the hustings whilst suporting meeker candidates from his party by his inflamatery speaches. I am writing to urge you, as leader of your party to curtail the activity of this dangerous lunatic, who, by all accounts will attempt to follow the lead of the bolchevicks in Rushia, and who, I have urged you in a previous letter to do everything in your power to stop before it is too late.
With my best regards to yourself and your esteemed cabinet.
Yours faithfully
Victor Albert, Wales.
Coppied to His Majesty King Edward the Seventh.
The other letters were of a similar nature and were addressed to Viscount Ridley, the Earl of Salisbury, Mr David Balfour, Mr Campbell Bannerman and Mr H.H. Asquith.
‘Rumours of the most salacious kind are reaching the cabinet daily, I am telling you, Sherlock,’ said Mycroft whilst his brother was immersed in the lecture of the letters with calculated inscrutability. Although he heard every word, he did not react. That was one of the few ways he had at his disposal to rebuke his overwhelming big brother. Indeed the current climate was one in which rumours sprouted like clover in the fields in spring and prospered like the pernicious knotweed. The public found most of them amusing and readily spent their money buying the tabloids to nourish their unhealthy appetite.
‘In our Utopian paradise,’ said Mycroft, ‘political assassination is unheard of. Can you imagine only one prime minister has ever been murdered in our country? Of course there have been hunting accidents involving turbulent dissenters, eh what...’ and he trailed off.
‘Yes,’ he said decidedly, challenging Sherlock to stay unfazed. ‘There is a plot afoot to eliminate the Welshman before his wings grow to unmanageable proportions.’ He seemed disappointed that this sensational declaration of his caused not even the flicker of an eyelid in his brother. ‘And this plan, our Secret Service informs us,’ he said staring at Sherlock intently, ‘is the brainchild of a so-called Aware Group, among whose members we find an important member of the royal family... eh... I’ll leave you to guess who.’
‘I never make guesses,’ said Sherlock, staring back at his brother blandly, determined not to reveal the shock he had felt on hearing this alarming news. A strange expression suddenly appeared on his face.
‘Have your spies said anything about Moriarty being involved in this plot?’ he asked.
‘Ha!’ ejaculated his brother. ‘Now that would have seen you pop up like a champagne cork, eh what runt? Afraid the answer is no. We haven’t any evidence of it.’ On hearing this, whatever interest the visit might have aroused in him seemed to fizzle out, but dutifully he listened to what the morning visitor had to say.
The elder Holmes explained that his visit was the result of a directive from the Viscount to (a) shed light on this matter, (b) advise on any measures likely to stem the flow of this toxic tide, and (c) to look into the matter and advise on how to defeat it covertly, in a manner which would not arouse the ire of the powerful but clueless prince, if there was any substance about the assassination attempt.
‘You have gathered that I have littl
e faith in our Secret Service,’ Mycroft said in a whisper, looking away. It was as if he was already thinking of how to deny the opinion if challenged later. Sherlock remained impassible, which caused considerable irritation in his brother, who, however took great care to hide his disappointment.
‘I repeat that we cannot tolerate any action of yours causing any prejudice to the heir to the throne,’ he said aggressively. Sherlock just smiled indulgently. Mycroft then wordlessly produced a sheet of paper, signified by a gesture of the head that Holmes should sign it, and thus was the Secrecy Document dealt with.
Sherlock had little taste for political intrigue and had not given any thought to this Welsh fellow, but he knew that he had no choice in the matter.
‘And there is another thing, Sherlock... may or may not be relevant here, but trusting your proverbial discretion, I will tell you this concerning the death of that wretched postal clerk. The Viscount has as much as admitted to me that he had instructed the police not to pursue a long investigation, to just wrap it up and to call it suicide.’
‘Why did he do that?’
‘Ours is not to ask the reason why, runt.’
‘Why is the postal clerk relevant to what you’ve been saying?’
‘He came in contact with the crême de la crême at the infamous Cleveland Street Bordello.’
‘You’re saying the boy was murdered?’
‘I am saying nothing of the sort,’ said Mycroft looking away. ‘We have an overzealous fellow in our Secret Service, one Tarquin Costelloe—with an e—how ludicrous can that be, I ask you? He’s cried wolf too often in the past. He claims that the unfortunate Edshott met his fate for having left his ears open to a conversation between some high-born patrons of that sordid establishment. Tarquin suggested that we should talk to one Arthur Swiniscow who knows what happened. What basis Costelloe had for such an allegation, we don’t know, but we are aware that he is a habitué of Hammond’s Bath himself. Not that this of itself has been prejudicial to the careers of some people in the cabinet.’ Finally Mycroft indicated that he was almost ready to leave, put on his coat and hat and made for the door, but instead of crossing the threshold he turned towards the younger Holmes.
The Memoirs of Irene Adler: The Irene Adler Trilogy Page 12
