The Memoirs of Irene Adler: The Irene Adler Trilogy (20 page)

In the event, the moment we mentioned Mr Stead’s name, we found Mycroft very receptive to our idea. He assured us that a raid such as the one we had in mind was feasible, and desirable. He knew that the Viscount thought highly of Abberline, and he, Mycroft knew how to talk his superior into taking difficult decisions. Trust him.

The following Wednesday, full of optimism, the Club, in various guises made our way towards the infamous establishment in Cleveland Street. We sat ourselves on separate benches in the Fitzroy Square Gardens which afforded a partial view on Cleveland Street. We saw Prince Victor Albert get off a hansom just outside the Gardens and pulling his hat down to hide his face walk briskly towards Hammond’s. We then saw Somerset and Euston, with Bartola walking arm in arm with Artémise following them very expertly. By a pre-arranged signal they signified to the others that the quarry too had entered that den of iniquity. There was no sign of the Professor, but then he might well have arrived earlier. In the guise of window shoppers, we surreptitiously made our way to Cleveland Street and we did not have to wait long to see police cabs with coppers and Secret Service men inside, quietly making their appearance and stopping outside the Bath. Shortly after, the sight of the quartet with cuffs round their wrists being escorted by men in uniform with Inspector Abberline in charge was as refreshing to us as an oasis appearing to our hardy explorers dying of thirst in the desert.

We were in the dark about the details, but it was not difficult for us to put the pieces together like Artémise’s drawings of bits of the human
face, to get the full picture. Mycroft had gone to the Viscount as he had promised and the latter had ordered Inspector Abberline to mount the operation, with some members of the Secret Service under his command. Discretion is of the essence, Abbeline, he had instructed. The Prince was whisked away by Secret Service chaps with a hood over his head to hide his identity, although passers-by had not failed to see him in cuffs earlier, and taken to the Home Office where he was delivered into the hands of the Home Secretary himself (in the presence of Mycroft). He angrily promised that he would tell pater to sack the Viscount, but the latter would later be heard regaling his visitors of how he had witnessed a royal slap being dispensed to the irresponsible puppy.

Somerset and Euston were clapped into police cells in Bow Street with Moriarty. The latter was found with two hundred guineas on his person and when asked to account for them explained that the Prince had given him the money as an endowment to buy mathematical tomes for the University of London library. His visit to the Turkish Bath was done in all innocence. As an unworldly academic, he had been used to accept the written word for what it said. A Turkish bath was a place where one went to clean oneself and relax one’s tired muscles. After a sleepless night working on Fermat’s theorem, he badly needed relaxation. Abberline said that he was sending for Mr Holmes to deal with him, but this left him unfazed.

‘I will tell Mr Holmes and indeed the whole world, by the courtesy of Mr Stead of the
Pall Mall Gazette
about how, to my horror, I overheard the Prince of Wales and his friends plot the murder of an innocent politician in a bordello.’

This left the law enforcers in a quandary. Abbeline had promised the Home Secretary that he would keep his Royal Highness’ name out of the scandal. He had no alternative but to let the evil professor go. Holmes consoled himself with the thought that catching up with the evil master criminal was only a matter of time. Somerset and Hammond, with the connivance of Labalmondière were likewise allowed to escape and were last heard of in France. Euston made sure he dropped his title to gain anonymity and henceforth went by the less distinguished name of Mr Fitzroy. Moriarty lived to die another day, at the Reichenbach Falls, at
the hands of his archenemy Mr Sherlock Holmes (with some help from yours truly.)

Oh, and Mr Lloyd George, who has probably never heard of the
Club des As
, survived this and many other plots against him and did become Prime Minister of the country. He was the architect of many an admirable reform. And I acquired the reputation of a villain and femme fatale! But I don’t mind, my friends at the
Club
love me for all my fault.

he was probably the prettiest woman I have ever laid eyes on. When I was treading the boards, I came across the most stunningly beautiful females: doe-eyed virgins, full-chested seductresses, blonde balls of fire, dark-haired Carmens. No wonder Coleridge left me for her, not that he and I were joined at the hips, and not that I minded. My American lover and I had an understanding for just such contingencies. The most important connection between us has always been friendship. My wispy incoherence will, I hope, become more transparent in the next paragraph.

We were rehearsing
Trelawney of the Wells
for the re-opening of the Alhambra which had been newly rebuilt after the fire in 1882. I had been told that PQR, Paul Quentin-Rathbone, wanted me for a part and I had been naturally hoping to be offered ‘Rose’, which would have worked wonders for my becalmed career on the planks. Fact is, Paul, a very promising man, had promised me a “huge big part” in his next production after I had played a soubrette in a Restoration production of his, but after I had refused him a certain favour, I knew that there was no point holding my breath. I did not shed any tears, hot or otherwise, when ‘Rose’ went to another (who shall remain nameless), and I was grudgingly offered ‘Clara de Foenix.’

It was not an earth-shattering role, but it would have kept me in bread and jam if not in ham and cheese. In those days I was young and optimistic and felt it in my bones that someday the curtains would inevitably rise on my astounding career. Why wouldn’t it? I was a good person and had harmed neither beast nor man. I was never in doubt about either my unique beauty or my boundless talent. So for the time being I was going to play my minor part with all the fibres in my body,
and watch the duly impressed impresarios colliding with each other in their scramble to come offer me contracts. So, imagine my disappointment when PQR summoned me in his office a full week after rehearsals had begun and told me that he had had to reconsider the casting and was offering ‘Clara’ to someone else. He did, however, promise (as I said, a very promising man) that there would be a plum part for me in his next production. It’s a promise, he said, adding without irony, ‘And I don’t make promises lightly’. I am not much given to shedding tears except onstage, so I shrugged and left without even asking him for a reason. In those days I usually sought solace in the arms of the insatiable Coleridge, but we had been out of touch for four months. When I located him, I found him, uncharacteristically unenthusiastic about what I would have dearly loved to offer him.

When we had first met, after a few passionate weeks together, Cole and I had tacitly agreed that our relationship was going to be an open one. Each of us had taken others to their respective beds - an activity that never stopped us being each other’s best friend and confidant. Anyway, unexpectedly Coleridge appeared at my digs in Bethnal Green one afternoon, having been apprised by mutual friends of my desire to see him.

Before I could rejoice in his visit I noticed a strange look on his face which I failed to interpret. My room was so small that all there was to sit on was the bed. We sat down next to each other and I took his rugged hands in mine, an action which strangely made
me
feel strong and powerful. I noticed that this made him uneasy.

‘What’s the matter, Cole?’ I asked.

‘I am in love, Irene.’ I knew he didn’t mean me, but as I am a bit of a tease I said, ‘So what, I am quite a bit in love with you too.’ My forced attempt at jollity disconcerted him a bit.

‘I met this fascinating woman called Harriet. A real lady I’m telling you. Scottish nobility.’

‘Good for you, Cole, I am delighted, I am truly happy,’ I said, meaning it- I think. ‘You know me,’ I added, ‘I mean, we never were Romeo and Juliet. Tell little sis.’ I suppose I am not normal in that I truly am not a jealous person.

‘No, I don’t really mean that I am in love with her, it’s more... I mean less ... oh Irene ... I am besotted with everything about her, her body, her voice, how she walks at an angle, as if she was squeezing herself through a passage that was too narrow, I don’t know if that makes any sense to you, but it’s enough to drive any man crazy with desire. You’ll never come across a more desirable woman in your life. She isn’t just a woman, she’s an apparition. Fit for a king.’ Cole did not know what a prophetic statement he had just made. She was indeed destined to become one of the many mistresses of Naughty Bertie, the Prince of Wales.

‘And how did this
grand amour
sprout, prithee?’ I wanted to know. His eyes lit up, as if he was reliving a pleasant dream.

‘One afternoon,’ he began, ‘the lady Arabella was closeted with her Viscount who loved to share his siesta hours with his
inamorata
and I was minding my business, plastering a wall when—’

‘Hold on, Cole,’ I said. ‘Who is the Lady Arabella? Who the Viscount? And what wall are you talking about?’ He smiled apologetically, acknowledging that he had got carried away.

‘Take a deep breath and tell sis everything.’

Although Coleridge sometimes worked in the theatre in a variety of ways, including playing monsters and villains, the parts were few and far between. So more often than not he sought employment as an odd-job man, carpenter, cleaner, scene shifter, cook or painter, supplementing his meagre earnings by doing house redecoration and repairs for private individuals. Anyway, one day Harriet, who was staying with her cousin Lady Leith asked if she could watch him work. I was still very much in the dark but knew that I would be enlightened in due course, so I just let him pursue his so far incoherent tale.

He had thought it was an odd request, but it was not his place to say so. ‘Yes, of course ma’am, I mean your ladyship.’ He had been aware of her eyes following him but he had always taken great care not to look at her directly.

‘As you know, you should never look directly at the sun.’

He had not failed to notice that she was like a creature that might have been half human and half heaven-sent. The obvious way she was moving around him was becoming quite embarrassing. He nearly fell off
the ladder when she said, ‘You have such strong arms Wordsworth, can I feel your muscles.’

‘Begging your pardon miss, eh... your ladyship, the name’s Coleridge.’ She had burst out laughing as if that was the biggest joke that she had ever heard.

‘ “
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
, and not
a host of golden daffodils
then?” I did not know what she meant and just smiled,’ admitted Coleridge.

‘ “Come down and let me have a feel,” she ordered, and I had no choice,’ said Coleridge. ‘She not only felt my biceps but would not let go of my arm. I soon became aware that what she called feeling, I’d have described as caressing. You know me, Irene how easily I get aroused. I had no control over my movements, my thoughts or anything until I had my wicked ways with her, there and then on the carpet in the passage. All the time Lady Leith was closeted with Viscount Chatterwell, did I say that?’

‘What am I calling
my
wicked ways? It was she who had
her
wicked ways with me,’ he laughed in his loud guffaw in which you immediately discovered the soul of a bass tenor.

I listened to my former lover without interrupting, not that I would have been able to, as he spoke without drawing breath. I now felt that I needed a clearer understanding of who were the
dramatis personae
of the comedy.

‘You have to illuminate my darkness, Cole, I followed your story, but who is Lady Leith, who is Harriet, who Viscount Chatterwell, who Arabella.’ He shook his head apologetically and smiled.

These events happened a good few years ago, but now I have the wisdom of hindsight. Coleridge filled me in, and later Harriet herself would give me a full account.

She was the fourth daughter of Sir Thomas Moncreiffe of the ilk, seventh baronet of Moncreiffe House on the Hills of the Sacred Bough, universally thought by all to be the prettiest of his eight daughters. She had acquired an early reputation for giddiness although her tutors spoke of her sponge-like ability to absorb knowledge. At the early age of fourteen she was caught in the hay with a stable boy and, although Sir Thomas doted on her, she spent a lot of her early adolescence locked up
in her room in order to keep her out of mischief. An impossible job in view of the existence of windows.