The Memoirs of Irene Adler: The Irene Adler Trilogy

by San Cassimally

  ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that should your assistance prove useful to the powers that be, there might well be a knighthood in it.’

  ‘That would embarrass me more than anything. As you know, I never thought much of titles, my dear Mycroft,’ Sherlock said with a shrug.

  ‘The very idea. Not for you, the very idea! No runt, I mean a knighthood for me,’ said the worthy government trouble-shooter, a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips. Sir Mycroft Holmes?

  These were the events which led the chaste Mr Holmes to the Cleveland Street bordello, for king and country, where dear Algernon had also gone, but for a less honourable purpose.

  Unbeknownst to the Holmes brothers, the aforesaid Tarquin Costelloe was an old flame of Lord Clarihoe. Although they had parted company a few years ago, they were still on friendly terms and were happy to spend the odd half-hour together when they met. Shortly after the events recounted above, the two of them met fortuitously at the Patroclus Club and Tarquin seemed very keen to confide in Algie. He intimated that a certain Arthur Swiniscow, also a postal clerk who did overtime at the Bath, had told him that the dead boy had unknowingly stumbled on a dangerous conversation between Prince Victor Albert, his equerry Lord Somerset and the Earl of Euston, when they were closeted inside a chamber. The rent boy had told him that Edshott had given him a full account of what he had overheard, but when questioned, Swiniscow had declined to add anything, on the grounds that his life was at stake. He had already said too much.

  Sherlock Holmes, expert at not revealing his true feelings though he be, had to make a superhuman effort to hide his disgust at stooping to visit a place of ill-repute. He found Arthur Swiniscow and picked him. He began by showing the boy two half crowns, swore him to secrecy and told him that he had no intention of making any demands of a sexual nature upon him, The youth had seemed agreeable to this and said, ‘As long as you are paying guv, I don’t care what your lordship do or don’t do.’ However, as he was something of a tease, and having picked on Holmes’ unease, every now and then he would discomfit the detective by making a suggestive pass at him, enquiring whether he had changed his mind. When they were closeted, Holmes gave the young fellow the two coins and promised him two more if he answered some questions.

  ‘Sir,’ said the cheeky boy, ‘for another crown, I’ll give you me ma’s address and all.’

  ‘About Fred Edshott—’

  ‘Sorry your lordship, Fred’d gone and I don’t like talking about the dead. Brings bad luck, talking abaht the dead does.’

  When pressed, he swore that he had not really known Fred. They rarely talked. They worked in the Post Office and in the bordello, but no, ‘I never heard nuffink excepting that he was drownded, and I never heard nuffink about princes and lords plotting no assassination.’ He never listened outside doors, not he. He knew what was good for his health.

  ‘Do you know who Lloyd George is?’

  ‘I know a David Lodge. Is he who you mean?’ said the rent boy disingenuously. Holmes was convinced that Arthur was a tease and was playing games with him. Naturally this reinforced his suspicion, especially as it was the boy who mentioned princes and lords plotting assassinations, and mentioned the name David. Still a confirmation was still a long way off.

  Holmes conceded that he wasn’t going to learn anything from the young fellow and left, but vowing to think of a better strategy.

  When he reported to Mycroft that Swiniscow had been tight-lipped, and that he had nothing concrete to offer to his brother but his strong suspicion about a plot being hatched at Hammond’s, the older brother reacted scornfully.

  ‘If I were a businessman, runt, and I had invested in suspicion,’ he apostrophised the ceiling, ‘when I traded it off I would expect a profit.’ Turning to face his brother, he added, ‘If all you can offer in return is suspicion, it’s of no use to me, it’s a fool’s bargain.’

  ‘Well, I am afraid I have nothing to offer then, dear older and wiser one,’ adding as an afterthought, ‘but I did bring back a strong suspicion.’ Mycroft gave him a sour look and left to report his lack of success to the Viscount, leaving Sherlock suspecting that the government man would shed no tears if some Welsh troublemaker were to disappear from the face of the earth. That, as far as he was concerned, was going to be the end of affair.

  But as Armande says, “L’homme propose, Dieu dispose.” Unbeknownst to Sherlock, Mycroft advised the Viscount to order the Secret Service to pick up the young mignon for a grilling.

  From the beginning Algernon, who surprisingly, was a keen advocate of reforms, had meant to delve into this matter. One Wednesday evening when all the members of the Club were gathered in the Mirror Room in Water Lane over Armande’s friandises, he took an unusually solemn tone and began by reminding us of the raison d’être of the Club des As.

  ‘I have been looking into the agenda of this Welsh chappie Lloyd George. He wants to tax the rich and help the poor. Isn’t Robin of Sherwood Forest a hero of the land? Are they only heroes until they impinge on reality? He is for social housing, for outlawing child labour. Eh, isn’t he doing our job for us? Shouldn’t we make it our duty to do everything in our power to help him and to defeat his enemies?’

  ‘We are for equality and justice, or we are nothing,’ said Bartola piously. It’s her pet motto.

  To cut a long story short, we unanimously decided that we would throw our weight behind any movement in the support of the Welsh firebrand. We knew that with the corrupt Labalmondière, a man who worshipped at the altar of the Status Quo, in charge of the Metropolitan Police Force in all but name, the law was not going to help. We had no idea of Sherlock Holmes’ involvement at the time, but we were aware that although most newspapers were in the hands of the ruling class who would necessarily be the biggest losers if privileges were replaced by social justice, there were some independent papers which fearlessly printed stories and features that the establishment preferred filed away and stacked on the top of inaccessible cupboards. Algie was a friend of Mr Stead the editor of the Pall Mall Gazette, and of his chief reporter Henry Hales. He also knew the owners of Reynolds’ News, another campaigning periodical. We were going to do our bit.

  When Algie went to Cleveland Street and asked for Arthur, Mr Hammond swore that no such person had worked for him. His own favourite, Brooksie, also began by declaring that he had never heard of him, but when pressed said that he would get a thrashing from Hammond if the latter knew that he had blabbered. He admitted that Swiniscow had disappeared, and reluctantly revealed where his mother lived. We sent the Bishop to talk to her. Nothing doing. She swore that she had no idea where her boy was, but our man said that he knew that she was lying.

  ‘I can fill it in my bones,’ exclaimed Armande, ‘the poor boy ’as bin kild.’ She began crying as if that young scamp who she had never met, was a dear relative. We must have been quite a sight as we sat round Armande’s table that afternoon.

  ‘Jeremiah Minahan!’ I said so suddenly that I did not immediately realise that the words had come from my mouth. The Irishman had been an exemplary officer in the Metropolitan Police Force until he was forced out by the corrupt Labalmondière for keeping too close a watch on Mrs Jeffries of Chelsea, procuress to the aristocracy and royalty. He now earned a precarious living as a private investigator, in which capacity he had worked for us in the past when Algie’s great niece had been kidnapped.

  We visited him in his house in Uverdale Street and he was happy to join forces with us again. After much hard work, he finally found the young fellow hiding at his aunt’s in Norwich. It seems that it was only after Holmes’ visit, instinctively recognising the latter as a man one did not trifle with, that he began to appreciate the danger he was in. When a couple of strong-armed thugs tried to kidnap him near Battersea (and failed), he began seriously to fear for his life. The Irishman told him that if he, Minahan, had found him, it was only a matter of time before the men of the Secret Service or whoever, would find him, and urged him to come back, p
romising to protect him.

  ‘Nobody can help me, sir. Unless I slip out of the country, I am done for. It’s a matter of time.’

  ‘I promise that no harm will be done to you under my watch, lad. I can help you, but first you must help us by answering a few questions. Some good people might be willing to pay your passage to the Carolinas if you wish to take yourself there.’

  ‘Oh but they’ll ’ave to pay for me old lady as well.’

  ‘I think that can be arranged.’ Minahan had thought that our mutual friend Mr Stead might be willing to help, against the exclusive story of the goings on at Hammond’s Turkish Bath. In the first instance, he would give the boy shelter in his own house in Uvedale Street whilst seeking a better hiding place. Naturally the boy would not leave the relative safety of Norwich until he was given watertight guarantees. Minahan came back to London to secure them for him. In the event Stead gladly promised to fund the boy’s and his mother’s emigration provided he sat down and recounted his story to Henry Hales, promising to print it in the Pall Mall Gazette only after the boy had left these shores for safer climes.

  It was high time for Algie and me to do a little field work. I am of course inured in the art of disguise, and I love dressing in men’s apparel. I have successfully passed muster in the past, pulling the wool over everybody’s eyes except my own. I got Artémise to improve on the last costume he designed for me and satisfied myself that not even lynx-eyed Holmes would have seen through my disguise. However, I was not entirely sanguine about my safety. This time I was going into the lion’s den. I would be exposed to the scrutiny of vicious criminals, from the nobility or royalty though they were, planning to kill a public figure with impunity, who would clearly have no compunction in dealing with a retired actress without connections in high places. Yes, our plan was to spy on the would-be assassins of David Lloyd George.

  So, Irene was again transformed into Count Hans von Klapisberg, friend of Lord Clarihoe visiting London from his native Vienna. Together we wended our way to Cleveland Street the following Wednesday morning, when, according to Costelloe, our targets usually visited. There is nothing effete about Clarihoe himself, but his instructions in how to waft one’s limp-wristed hand extravagantly, swing one’s hips or roll one’s eyes suggestively, to give the impression of the Uranian, proved priceless. My moustache was expertly crafted, as was my ivory cane. My gold watch glittered and my silk white scarf outrageously long. Using my theatrical skill to assume a haughty air, I projected an aura of decadent Uranian aristocracy from one hundred yards. We were received with great courtesy, not to say obsequiousness, by Hammond who guaranteed a “positively ripping” time to “your lordships”.

  Everything seemed to be working in our favour. In hushed tones, Hammond informed us that his Royal Highness and Lords Somerset and Euston were already closeted in the Number One Bath Saloon. Number Two, which is just as grand is at your disposal, he offered. We readily took him up on this offer as Algie knew that it was adjacent to Number One. We intimated to him that we wanted to spend some time alone, and would not avail ourselves of “young flesh” this time. Leering at me, he nodded and winked his understanding.

  As I had known from experience, Algie, seeing me in my male attire began to feel amorous, and after an initial hesitation, I agreed to indulge in some sex-play with him. We had often shared a bed in the past, sleeping with our arms round each other, bare flesh in contact, but this time the cuddles were rather more than sisterly. I had to remind him what our purpose was in being in this place and promised that I will become Hans von Klapisberg again for him at some more convenient time and place.

  Of course we had come prepared. I had an excellent lorgnette in my bag. The partition between the two best rooms was quite flimsy, and we were able to enlarge an existing peephole with Clarihoe’s penknife— there were a few already in existence, no doubt ingeniously crafted by the shrewd Hammond himself for that little extra delectation of his clientèle. I now had a near perfect view of Somerset and Euston although the Prince of Wales only provided me with a view of his royal backside (Clarihoe had put me wise to their identities). They were laughing and sweating profusely, obviously unaware of our intent. You would think that we heard not one word exchanged and you would be right. However, if you assume that we therefore were unable to follow their conversation, you’d be wrong.

  The reader will be familiar with the many techniques we had developed in our attempt to foster our multifarious activities: facial recognition, interpretation and counterfeiting of handwriting, seeing in near darkness. We were now going to use techniques we had evolved in eavesdropping on conversations from a distance by means of lip-reading, a skill we had honed by indulging in games created for that purpose.

  Without going into lengthy details, I will explain cursorily how we proceeded. We (the Club)would gather in the Mirror Room at Water Lane and sit ourselves in a circle. The method was simplicity itself, but obviously we devoted hundreds of hours in practice. We began by silently mouthing vowels and simultaneously studying the shape of lips and position of tongues and teeth. We began by making careful observations of the similarities and differences arising with the ‘o’ the ‘u’ and the ‘oo’ sounds, then moving on ‘e’ and ‘ee’ etc, until we all passed the tests we had devised, scoring nearly 100%. The consonants were less difficult apart from ‘t’ and ‘d’, but by dint of relentless effort we developed an uncanny instinct for differentiating between them by watching the position of the teeth. The diphthongs were the most difficult, but we were not people to throw in the towel when the going got hard. After eight months, all of us ended up mastering the technique to near perfection. Bartola did excellent work in the matter of Rosa Selbow’s divorce case. To keep ourselves in good trim, we regularly amused ourselves of an evening playing lip-reading parlour games. These consisted of someone sitting at one end of a room, facing us, and mouthing known lines of poetry, with the rest having to identify, not just the words, but complete verses. As a by-product, we found ourselves acquiring a taste for our wonderful poets.

  In Cleveland Street, with my eyepiece in place, I was able to catch the drift of what the plotters next door, whose lips were in my line of vision were saying. The steamy environment was something of an obstacle, but we managed. I identified the word venture on the lips of both the men who I could see clearly. The subject of the conversation transpired to be some man, although, because of the movement of their heads all I was able to catch was the first syllable of his name, which seemed to be Bo or Mo. I will call him Mr B. for the time being. It was Euston who seemed responsible for liaising with him. Yes, he would bring him to the Bath. It seemed that the man was a notorious lover of young flesh of both sexes, although he usually had his own means of procurement. At some point reference was made to LG, who we knew was Lloyd George. It appeared from the response of the two other men that the heir to the kingdom had assured them that he would be happy to fund the venture. We had confirmation that the plan was now at an advanced stage. It was clear that Mr B was the person they were hiring to carry out the dastardly act. Still, however strong, a suspicion is not a proof. The word killing itself was not mouthed, neither was the name of Lloyd George. Venture could mean anything. We only had a wobbly leg to stand on. No one in authority would act on our findings, except perhaps put us away for slander—or indecent behaviour.

  Our Irish envoy went to fetch Swiniscow in Norwich and initially lodged him in Uverdale Road. After a few days we organised a secret midnight transfer, and the boy, now reassured about his safety after a visit from his mother, arranged by the sympathetic Minahan, arrived in Water Lane in great spirits. He was now enjoying being the centre of attention and being made a big fuss of.

  We were almost a full house when the young reprobate triumphantly arrived, playing the part of the prodigal son. Armande was all over him, hugging him like a long lost brother. We served him with generous slices of the Frenchwoman’s patisserie and offered him a tankard of ale. He struck me as a
personable young fellow. Although I could see that he was pretty devious, I believed that most of what he told us was the truth.

  He had started working at the Great Portland Street Post Office when he was thirteen and began his association with Hammond’s Turkish bath when encouraged by work colleagues. When asked why, he opened his eyes wide and in a hardly audible voice, said, ‘My mam hadn’t seen meat in five years.’

  ‘ ’ave another piss of cake Monsieur Swinisco.’

  Next day, Arthur Swiniscow agreed to be questioned by us in the presence of Jeremiah. He and Fred had been friends for as long as he could remember. They not only worked at the Post Office together, but yes, they also had the bordello in common.

  ‘You couldn’t do that job without support.’ They had no secrets for each other. Fred hated Lord Somerset, who claimed that he was in love with him. Arthur had often seen the Prince of Wales and the two lords. He knew who they were, but he never had anything to do with them. Fred had told him about the strange conversations that he overheard. They talked about political things that he didn’t understand, so he hardly paid any attention to them. When he heard them talk about the need to have David Lodge killed, he was very concerned. He had been friends with David and wouldn’t have wanted any harm done to him. David was a friend of both of them. Fred was intrigued when he heard that eliminating Lodge would be an act of heroism which will save the empire from ultimate extinction. Young Lodge, a baker’s apprentice, was the sort who wouldn’t hurt a fly, so how was he going to cause damage to our empire? Which is what prompted Fred to eavesdrop on their conversation.

  ‘I loved Fred like a bruvver,’ said Swiniscow, ‘but not for ’is brains. ’E never read no newspapers like I did. I told ’im that the men wuz not talking about our mate David. That he ’ad not ’eard Lodge but Lloyd George. A politician like. But ’e ’ad been so upset that he stumbled and dropped a pail of water, and the three men caught him. A right bollocking they gave ’im, but the poor sod thought that was the end of the story. Must admit, I thought so too when ’e told me. That night we went for a few ales, and when we parted company at Battersea, I thought I saw a funny-looking cove following us, but never gave no thought to ’im. That was the last time I’d seed Fred.’