The Memoirs of Irene Adler: The Irene Adler Trilogy (25 page)

Unsurprisingly he became besotted with her new persona and after a cursory five minute test, he invited her to join the repertory.
To my amusement, Harriet said she would of course consider it, but the moment we were alone she confided to me that she never had the slightest intention of working with that man. She was only using him as a Litmus test. She easily found work in other theatres, gracing the London theatre scene with many a sterling performance and making a name for herself.

Sir Thomas tells everybody that his disgraced daughter lives in an asylum in Surrey and is in good health. Lord Mordaunt lost all interest in her and in his mid-forties, he remarried a parson’s daughter, the sixteen-year-old Louisa Cholmondeley, and formed another family.

Later when I got to know Sherlock Holmes well, he confided to me that he had discovered the truth about Harriet, but had chosen not to impart this intelligence to the seventh baronet of that ilk.

‘And why, dare I ask, Mr Holmes?’

‘In the exercise of my profession, my dear Miss Adler,’ he said, looking over my head, ‘I have come across people with varying degrees of insanity, and had come to an early conclusion about Harriet Mordaunt’s state of mind.

had read the vitriolic article “
The Lost Arctic Voyagers
” in which Mr Charles Dickens rather extraordinarily refuted Mr John Rae’s claim that he had found incontrovertible evidence of Sir John Franklin, who led a failed expedition to find the Northwest Passage, and his men, having indulged in cannibalism, in a desperate fight against starvation when they got lost in the snowy wastes of Canada. The Scottish explorer was the first man to discover the Passage. En route he had come across the grisly remains of members of the previous expedition led by the English aristocrat Franklin, including human bones, in their cooking kettles. The famous writer had based his assertion on his unshakeable belief that no Englishman worth his salt would stoop so low. A Scotsman like Rae, on the other hand, might well not hesitate to tell lies and spread slander. I did not think my Scottish Mam, bless her soul, would have liked to hear that. Later that night, while we were celebrating the birthday of my erstwhile lover Coleridge, having partaken of more alcohol than usual, I was vociferous in my attacks on the novelist. I was surprised when the Bishop said that eating the youngest crew member was a common practice among folks of the sea, English or otherwise, as the only alternative to slow starvation.

We were not too surprised when only a few days later we read in
The Times
the strange tale of how the German barque
Moctezuma
, carrying a cargo of nitrate, had sailed into Falmouth harbour with three shipwrecked men it had picked up fifteen hundred miles from the Cape of Good Hope, drifting in a wooden dinghy, dehydrated and starving.

The Captain told the newspaper that the three men had been on the point of death but fortunately had quickly recovered after coming
on board. The men, Captain Bromwich, his first mate Mr Hawkins and Waters, seaman, told Sergeant Laverty of a cabin boy by the name of Richard Bowles who had drowned when their yacht
La Chouette
had floundered in a gale.

Laverty began by questioning the men. They were not under arrest, the
Times
explained, but the police needed a statement from them since a death had occurred. Later it would transpire that the astute policeman had found some discrepancies and contradictions in their statements, but his superior officer had urged him to drop the case as an investigation would serve no purpose. The men were released and the
Moctezuma
was allowed to sail to Hamburg.

We forgot all about Mr Dickens’ vitriolic attack on Mr Rae, as we had a new topic of conversation: the curious shipwreck. I was rather pleased when one morning, sitting alone in my Dai Lernière disguise, a distraught woman came knocking at the door of my Warren Street office.

‘Mr Lernière?’ she asked. I showed her to a chair opposite my desk.

‘Are you expensive?’ she asked the moment she sat down.

‘Ma’am,’ I said more earnestly than I had intended, ‘I am always affordable. I charge my clients what I think are the most reasonable rates in our trade. It is related to their financial condition. Rich people pay the normal fee, poor folks less, often nothing at all.’

‘Oh, no, no, sir, I can pay, but...’

‘I’ll charge you expenses.’ I interrupted. ‘First tell me who you are and what I can do for you.’ For a while she just stayed on her chair, head bent down, as if in prayer. I realised that she was crying into her handkerchief. I gave her time to regain her composure and when she had, she continued.

‘No doubt sir you are acquainted with the story of the sinking of the yacht
La Chouette
and the three survivors picked up at sea.’

She was Meg Bowles, the mother of the unfortunate cabin boy who had met with his sad fate after the shipwreck. She did not believe the official version of events and began recounting to me details of the case no newspapers had published.

‘I ain’t saying this, sir, coz he’s my son, sir, but anybody in our neighbourhood would tell you the same thing. My Richard was too good for
this world. I tell you, sir, when he came into a room it is as if someone had lit a candle. When he smiled it was like someone had lit
two
candles.’ I could not see how that might have been incompatible with his having fallen overboard, but I kept my counsel to myself. She rambled on for a bit about her son’s virtues and I didn’t have the heart to tell her to come to the point.

When she was good and ready she told me how excited Richard had been when he came home one afternoon. Ma, he said, I’ve finally got a job. It had been his ambition since childhood to go to sea. God knows how hard the poor boy had been trying to get his foot on the ladder and onto the deck of a ship. A rich Australian barrister who also had a sheep farm had ordered a yacht from an English ship chandler and Richard had secured a berth on board as cabin boy to the crew engaged in delivering the craft halfway round the world to the Antipodes. He was going to be away for at least six months.

La Chouette
set sail from Tilbury. It was plain sailing until they reached the Cape of Good Hope, when it became obvious that the frail cockpit might have difficulty surviving the relentless gales which prevailed in that part of the ocean. When they were over one thousand miles from the African coast, the
Chouette
suddenly went down in a minor storm, almost without warning. It was far from seaworthy and one must wonder how it had acquired a licence to sail. The four men scrambled on board a small wooden dinghy, but it was so precipitous that they didn’t have time to gather food or water, apart from a few tins of turnips and water in a pail, half of which spilled out in the melée.

Bromwich had told how they survived the long days without food. They caught a porpoise which fed them for less than a week. Their hope that the sea would somehow provide food turned out to be a mirage. To begin with, they had very little resources to help them catch any fish. They ate the turnips, rationed the fresh water and all the time the cruel sun shone its punishing rays upon them. Soon there was not one drop of water left. Young Bowles was weak and delirious from drinking sea water, the three survivors had recounted. Before anyone could stop him, he had, without warning thrown himself into the sea in front of their very eyes and drowned. Lucky boy, Captain Bromwich had declared at the
time. After an ordeal lasting nineteen days, they were fortunate enough to be picked by Captain Simonsohn of the German barque
Moctezuma
bound for Hamburg with a cargo of nitrate.

‘So in what manner can I help you, Mrs Bowles?’

‘I told you, I don’t believe that this was what happened. I know my boy is gone forever, but he was too good to die like they said. He was young and strong. I cannot believe what they told the police. All I want is the truth.’ I was stuck for words.

‘But there is no proof that the men were lying.’ I ventured, which seemed to inflame my visitor.

‘What can you mean?’ she cried indignantly. ‘No proof! Why would the survivors who were older and less fit than my boy keep a cool head but not my healthy and strong lad? No, that cannot be the truth.’ Mrs Bowles had a point. I smiled apologetically and offered to make her a cup of tea, which cheered her up. It took all of fifteen minutes to boil the water over the Primus stove. I have always marvelled at the power of the cup of tea to mend damaged souls and egos. Especially if it is served in conjunction with home-made
galettes
baked by a French expert, Armande in this case.

‘I went to see Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ she began, now much soothed. ‘I was told he is the best.’ I did not mind her
faux pas
, in the knowledge that I was just a beginner.

Holmes had listened to her very attentively, nodding his agreement all the time. When she had intimated that she would like him to look into the matter and find the truth about what happened to Richard, the detective had been deep in thought. Then the housekeeper came in to announce that a Mr Mycroft needed to consult him urgently. Holmes had very courteously asked Mrs Bowles if she minded waiting for just a few minutes, explaining that his visitor was a very busy man and would not stay long. He had then retired into the library next door. She was not one for eavesdropping, she assured me, but without meaning to, she heard the name of Richard mentioned. This prompted her to tiptoe towards the door so she might listen more carefully. She heard them mention
La Chouette
as well as the names of the crew, but she was unable
to catch their drift. She heard Mr Mycroft say, ‘I know you will do your best to safeguard the good name of our seagoing nation.’

Mrs Bowles told me of her alarm when Mr Holmes came back and she found that his whole attitude towards her had changed. She would have sworn on the Bible that before the inopportune arrival of the brother, he was on the point of assuring her that he was going to look into the matter thoroughly. Now he seemed to have had a change of heart. She was shocked by what he had to say now. It was a shame that her poor boy had perished at sea, a tragedy of course, but it served no purpose for the public to cast aspersions at members of a distinguished class of Englishmen: seafarers.

‘Mrs Bowles, you do not ignore that our navy, merchant or otherwise, has acquired the highest possible reputation for heroism, dedication and honesty in the world. Surely you wouldn’t do anything to tarnish that image?’

I understood what had happened. I had of course lived at number 221B Baker Street and witnessed the interaction between the brothers. They adopted a flippant attitude towards each other. Mycroft assumed a position of authority
vis a vis
his younger brother, but his unspoken admiration for him was quite obvious. Of course he’d rather be seen dead than caught paying a compliment to “the runt”, as Mycroft usually called Sherlock. The latter always treated the arrival of the government trouble shooter as irksome but if he did not show his face for more than a week, he’d prick up his ears every time the doorbell rang and could ill disguise his disappointment when the visitor turned out to be someone other than his “honoured wiser brother.” He always appeared to resent any suggestion made by his senior sibling, but I have never seen him act contrary to his wishes. I have no doubt that when Sherlock mentioned the purport of Mrs Bowles’ visit, his brother forbade him to have anything to do with the sad affair. I also knew how Holmes would subsequently resolve the dilemma.

‘In what way did Mr Holmes change his tune?’

‘He said that it was wrong to doubt the word of Captain Bromwich, a true English salt.’

‘I know,’ Mrs Bowles had said to him, ‘but I’ve heard stories of shipwrecked sailors eating the youngest when faced by starvation.’

‘Yes,’ Holmes had said. ‘Foreign sailors maybe, but I cannot begin to imagine that with our traditions as a seafaring nation, a man like Captain Bromwich would sanction such practices.’

‘But—’

‘Remember, Mrs Bowles, the matter was looked into by the Chief of Police in Falmouth. He did not find a single shred of evidence supporting your suspicion. I decry your great loss, naturally, but you will gain nothing but sleepless nights if you persist in this obsession.’