‘I am overwhelmed. Since my husband’s death, which left me in a state both of despair and pecuniary disadvantage, I have not wished to face the world again. But Sherlock Holmes of all people …’
‘You will come?’ the Nob asked in a kindly tone.
‘Well, it certainly gives me new heart. I am approaching a time of life when a woman feels …’
‘You cannot be much over thirty years.’ Ember bowed with considerable gallantry.
‘You flatter me, sir. Yet I must admit that Mr Holmes’ letter has set me aflutter like a young girl again.’
‘You will come?’ repeated the Nob.
‘Yes.’ Her face lit up in the most pleasing of smiles. ‘Yes, of course I will come. What woman would not for Mr Sherlock Holmes?’
* Terrorist bombings, spread over a long period, were quite frequent during the last three decades of the 19th century. The bombing of Clerkenwell Prison, in 1867, is but one example of bombs both large and small. An attempt to blow up the Mansion House, in March 1881, almost succeeded. Two years later the Local Government Office, Charles Street, Whitehall, was the target: this time the bomb exploded. In the same year there were at least two more explosions – in an Underground tunnel between Charing Cross and Westminster, and a more serious explosion on 30 October, strangely at the Praed Street Underground station, seriously injuring 62 people. Bomb scares during the late eighties seem to have been as rife as those recently experienced in contemporary London; and in February, 1884, an explosion wrecked a cloakroom at Victoria (Underground) station. On 30 May, in the same year, part of Scotland Yard’s Detective Department was damaged, and a nearby public house demolished. It is possible that two bombs were used here, the public house being the second target. Following what must now seem to us an almost traditional pattern, the terror tactics were changed, and the Junior Carlton Club and Sir Watkyn Williams Wynn’s neighbouring house were damaged. On the same day – 30 May – a more serious tragedy was averted when sixteen sticks of dynamite were defused at the base of Nelson’s Column. Other targets in that same year, happily discovered before detonation, were London Bridge, the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Hall and the Tower of London. In 1893 a postal worker was killed by a parcel bomb and a year later another similar device exploded in New Cross Post Office. A quick summary would not, of course, be complete without reference to the unfortunate anarchist Martial Bourdin who died when the explosives he was carrying were denonated prematurely in Greenwich Park on 15 February 1894. This last incident was, of course, used as a basis for Mr Joseph Conrad’s novel The Secret Agent.
* Moriarty is referring, of course, to Kensal Green Cemetery.
LONDON AND PARIS:
Tuesday, 4 May – Friday, 14 May 1897
(Vice-versa)
‘Allow me to regale you with a tale which may already be familiar to some of you.’ Moriarty faced those who were most privy to his thoughts.
They sat in the largest chamber of the Bermondsey buildings: Ember, Lee Chow, Bert Spear, Harry Allen, the Jacobs brothers and the Professor himself.
‘After the tale,’ continued Moriarty, ‘I shall show you a small miracle. You will recall that, soon after my return to London – following our American episode – I asked for intelligence concerning a woman, by the name of Irene Adler. Well, as Ember will tell you, Miss Adler is now in London; suitably set up in a pleasant little villa in that most respectable suburb of Maida Vale.’
Ember nodded, his foxy face reflecting the complacency of one who is party to a great leader’s innermost schemes.
Moriarty’s voice took on that well-known mesmeristic lilt. ‘Now, Irene Adler is a lady with a past, if you follow my meaning. At one time she was a most fashionable contralto. Concerts everywhere. She even appeared at La Scala, and was for some time prima donna of the Imperial Opera of Warsaw. She was also an adventuress.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Indeed, it would not have taken much to push her into our camp. She would have made an admirable family woman.’
He paused for effect. ‘Let me tell you here and now that I have the greatest respect for this lady. For she shares one great dignity with myself. Some eight or nine years ago she got the better of Mr Sherlock Holmes. Indeed, Mr Holmes, who is noted for his somewhat reserved attitude to the fair sex, also holds her in high esteem. At the time of this clash, Miss Adler married. A love match it seems, the gentlman being a solicitor, by the name of Godfrey Norton.* They were married in some haste and left the country almost immediately, living in Switzerland and France for the three or four years of their marriage. Then tragedy befell the lovebirds. While out walking on the lower slopes of Mont Blanc, the pair were overtaken by an avalanche, Mr Norton losing his life and his wife hovering near death for several months. She was, however, spared. Yet so distressed was she that a story went about which claimed that she too had perished.’
He allowed the facts to sink home. ‘Unhappily, Mr Norton died leaving very little provision for his widow, while she, in despair, was reluctant to face the world again. She has been living, these last years, in great and frugal simplicity: her singing voice gone, and her spirit almost broken.’
Moriarty beamed at his audience. ‘You will be pleased to hear, gentlemen, that all this has been changed; by that paragon of virtue, the dedicated and coldly analytical Sherlock Holmes.’
Ember smiled knowledgeably, the others looked puzzled.
‘If you will bear with me,’ Moriarty continued happily. ‘I would like to introduce you to a visitor who has done us the honour of agreeing to come to our simple retreat. I shall go and fetch him, though it will take twenty or thirty minutes. You would do well to charge your glasses. Be patient.’ Bowing like an actor, the Professor retired, heading for the quarters which he now often used in the refurbished building.
The members of the Praetorian Guard talked among themselves, replenished their glasses, and probed Ember for more details of the Professor’s devious story. But the foxy man would not be drawn.
Some five and twenty minutes later, they were called to silence by the Professor’s voice behind the door.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said loudly. ‘I have the honour to present to you, Mr Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street.’ The door opened and Holmes stepped into the room.
All but one of the assembled villains looked aghast, for it was in truth James Moriarty’s deadly enemy: the tall lean figure, the sharp piercing eyes, alert and shining above the hawk-like nose and prominent square jaw. The delicate hands moved in a precise gesture as Holmes took in the scene.
‘Well, gentlemen, we meet face to face. I see you have been enjoying the pleasures of your native food, Lee Chow. And, you, Spear – if that is your real name – did you enjoy your walk by the river this morning? As for our good friends the Jacobs brothers, it would appear they have recently been playing billiards.’
Bertram Jacobs took a pace forward, as though about to perpetrate an act of aggression, when Holmes’ voice changed.
‘No, Bertram, you are safe,’ said James Moriarty.
Sherlock Holmes’ head oscillated slightly, and the laugh which broke from his lips was the laugh of their leader, the Professor. ‘Is this not my greatest triumph in disguise?’ he said proudly.
Irene Adler was enchanted by the house in Maida Vale. In truth it was a small place, but neat, tidy and cosy, furnished with consummate taste, and containing everything for which a woman could wish, including the services of an excellent young maidservant, by name of Harriet.
On her arrival there was another letter from Mr Holmes, couched in the most affectionate of terms. Flowers were set fresh in the vases and a small carriage was at her disposal, day or night.
At the end of his note, Holmes had written – I am much entangled in a matter of some importance at the moment, but will call upon you as soon as it is humanly possible.
It was, however, three days before the great detective put in an appearance at the villa.
He arrived in the late afternoon while Irene Adler was chan
ging, prior to taking a drive in her newly acquired carriage. Harriet, all agog, came with the news that he was waiting for her in the parlour.
She came down to greet her benefactor some fifteen minutes later, dressed in a simple grey afternoon gown, her face radiant and looking nowhere near her nine and thirty years.
‘Mr Holmes, I know not how to thank you. I am overcome with your kindness. Would it be presumptuous of me to offer a kiss?’
‘Dear lady,’ his tall frame towered above her, the firm features composing themselves into a smile of intense pleasure as he took her in his arms. ‘I have waited long for this moment. I am only happy that you have seen fit to take advantage of my offer.’
She hugged him close. ‘Mr Holmes, I can still hardly believe it, your reputation is that you would go a hundred miles rather than be found in any position of compromise with a mere woman.’
‘True.’ He gave her an affectionate squeeze. ‘True, I have been presented as such, but you so softened my heart all those years ago when we met – under most dubious circumstances – that I have longed to be of assistance to you. I have never understood why, if you were alive and in such difficult financial straits, you did not return to your chosen profession in the theatre.’
She sighed, took his arm and led him to the couch which stood near to the window, seating herself and patting the velvet to indicate that he should take his place beside her.
‘My voice is gone, Mr Holmes. The shock of that terrible avalanche, and the death of my husband, of Godfrey.’ Her eyes filled up and she was forced to turn her face away.
‘I am so sad for you, Irene,’ he said, his hand reaching out to pat hers in comfort. ‘I know what such a loss must have meant. I am a cold fish in some ways, but I can imagine the void and ache which such a bereavement leaves behind. If I can help to dull the pain, you have but to ask.’
‘I must first thank you for all you have done already. For all this.’ Her hand swept in a circle round the room. ‘And for the clothes and, and everything. Have you really forgiven me for that last business?’
He discerned a small twinkle replacing the tears in her brimming eyes.
‘I have never had anything but admiration. There is nothing to forgive.’
‘But what can I give you in return for your kindness, Mr Holmes? I feel I have so little to offer.’
‘If I could offer you marriage, I would do so at once.’ He moved closer. ‘But, as you know, I am a bachelor confirmed. However,’ his tongue slid across his lips, as though to moisten them. ‘However, what can a woman offer to a man who has been so starved of feminine affection?’
Irene Adler’s face was lifted to him as she twined her arms around his neck and pulled him down towards her.
‘Oh, Mr Holmes,’ she murmured.
‘Later,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘we can, perhaps, have a champagne supper at The Monico.’
‘Lovely, dear Sherlock,’ she replied softly, eyes closed and mouth parted. ‘Lovely.’
Crow was running out of time, and he knew it. In the days which had gone by since Holmes’ sudden and ailing departure from Paris, he had searched the length and breadth of the Mont-martre quarter for the girl known as Suzanne the Gypsy. There appeared to be plenty who knew her, yet none who had set eyes on her for some time.
There were but two days left before he was due back on duty at Scotland Yard, when the wire arrived from Holmes. It contained only four words – TRY FOLIES BERG RE TONIGHT. Mystified by this sudden, and yet such certain direction, Crow spent the day in some agitation, dined with less composure than usual, and set out for the Folies Bergère in high hopes.
He had already visited the place on several occasions during his quest, so was quite acclimatized to the noise and the superior quality of the performances – not to mention the young women who paraded themselves along the promenade. After an hour or so of putting hasty questions to harassed waiters, Crow steeled himself to take a turn along the promenade where he had already suffered some indignities at the hands of the night ladies who offered themselves there.
Success came quickly. A girl, dressed in the height of fashion, but with too much paint and powder for Crow’s taste, seized on him almost as soon as he showed himself.
‘Were not you asking for Suzanne the other night?’ she queried breathlessly, one eye on Crow, the other cocked for any passing trade which she might miss. ‘Suzanne the Gypsy?’
‘Indeed I was. Have you news?’
‘You’re in luck. She’s here. She only returned to Paris today.’
Crow cast around him, trying to identify the girl among the throng.
‘Over here,’ cried the prostitute who had grabbed him. ‘Here,’ dragging him by the sleeve and at the same time calling out, ‘Suzanne, I have a friend for you, if you have not become too fine a lady among your actress friends.’
Crow suddenly found himself face to face with the jet-haired beauty whose features undeniably showed that her veins contained gypsy blood. The girl looked him up and down, her mouth red, inviting and open in a wide smile.
‘You wish to buy me a drink?’ she asked in coquettish style.
‘I have been searching all Paris for you, if you are known as Suzanne the Gypsy,’ gasped Crow.
She laughed. ‘That’s me, only I have not brought my tambourine with me tonight. We’ll have to play other tunes.’
‘I merely wish to speak with you,’ Crow answered primly. ‘It is a matter of some importance.’
‘Time is money, chéri.’
‘You will be paid.’
‘Good, then lead me to the champagne.’
Crow took her along, found a fresh table, ordered the wine and then gave her all his attention.
‘I have been searching for you,’ he started.
‘I have been out of Paris,’ she giggled, shaking her elegant shoulders. ‘Monsieur Meliés has been taking moving pictures of me. You have seen the cinematograph?’
‘Yes. No. Well, I’ve heard of these things.’
‘I have been acting for Monsieur Meliés. In a cinematograph film he has been taking at his country house at Montreuil.’
‘Fascinating. But …’
‘Indeed it is fascinating. He wanted several girls to act at being gypsies. I am the real thing. He said so himself. You wish to hear more of how he takes the photographs?’
‘No, I wish to hear of something else.’
‘What?’
‘Suzanne, please cast your mind back to just after Christmas.’
‘Zut,’ she raised her hands. ‘That is hard. Sometimes I cannot remember what happened yesterday. Christmas is a long time ago.’
‘You were at the Moulin Rouge.’
‘I am often at the Moulin Rouge. I would rather talk about Monsieur Meliés, he is coming here tonight. A whole party is coming tonight, you could meet him.’ She stopped suddenly, staring at him. ‘I don’t know your name.’
‘My name is Crow.’
‘Good,’ she bubbled, ‘I shall call you le Corbeau. See?’ Suzanne made flapping motions with her hands, and a cawing noise from the back of her throat.
Crow considered that in all probability she had taken more than enough to drink. ‘On the night I am talking about,’ he said firmly, ‘you met an American. A stout American, who, I think, was asking where he could find a gentleman called Jean Gris-ombre?’
Suzanne seemed to sober up with remarkable rapidity. ‘You want to know about Grisombre?’
‘No. Do you remember the American?’
‘I don’t know. I might. It depends. Why do you wish to know?’
‘He is a friend of mine. I’m trying to find him. His name was Morningdale. There was some kind of a fracas outside the Moulin Rouge when he left. Something to do with a girl. A street girl.’
‘Yes, I know about that. I remember him. He was not pleasant. But his friend, Harry, he was good to me.’ She shrugged. ‘The American paid.’
‘And they were looking for Grisombre?’
> ‘Yes.’
‘Did you help them?’
‘I sent them up to La Maison Vide. Jean Grisombre is there most nights. Was there most nights. I went up tonight, he is travelling somewhere, so you’ll be out of luck if you want to see him.’
‘But the American would have seen him that night?’
‘If he went there, yes. No doubt at all.’
‘This American and his friend, where had they come from?’
‘London. I think it was London.’ Her brow creased as though she was making a great effort to remember. ‘Yes. He said something to Harry about where they lived. It seemed strange.’
‘Try to think.’
‘Another glass of champagne.’
Crow poured, not taking his eyes from her. Around them the place was alive with music, laughter, dancing and the thick, crowded, hurly-burly of people determined to enjoy themselves whatever the cost.
‘How much are you paying me?’
‘Enough.’
‘You wish to sleep with me also?’
‘No.’
‘You do not find me attractive?’
Crow sighed. ‘My dear young woman, I find you most attractive, but I have made a small vow to myself.’
‘Vows are made to be broken.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Money.’
Crow tossed a small pile of gold coins onto the table where they disappeared like lumps of fat in a hot pan.
She gave him a quick smile and stood up.
‘Can you not remember? Or is this some fraud?’ He asked with alarm.
‘I remember,’ she smiled again. ‘He said … When he gave me the money to be with Harry, he said, “I will not tell your little skivvy at Albert Square. They tell me, Suzanne the Gypsy is worth every sou you spend”. And I am, Monsieur le Corbeau, worth every sou.’
‘Albert Square? You’re sure of that?’
‘I’m worth every sou.’ She gave a little mocking laugh and disappeared into the crowd.
At that moment the band struck up and the wild whoops of the cancan girls filled the salon, drowning everything else. The detective considered that he should go and find the other little fancy lady and tip her for leading him to Suzanne. Then home as fast as steam would carry him.