Read Online The Memoirs of Irene Adler: The Irene Adler Trilogy by San Cassimally - Free Book Online
Authors: San Cassimally
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close the door behind me but left it slightly ajar to enable the sound waves to gain unimpeded access to my curious ears. My strong suspicion concerning the identity of the Italian pair was soon confirmed. They began by obtaining Mr Holmes’ guarantee that as clients, whatever they were going to tell him was entirely confidential, to which the detective gave a slight but convincing nod. Then taking turns, the brothers told Mr Holmes the strangest story he must have heard in his long career as a fighter against crime.
‘No,’ said Amedeo, ‘no crime was committed against us.’
‘Nor did we do anything unlawful.’
‘But clearly a crime had been committed,’ pursued Enrico Frostini.
‘Imagine our surprise,’ said Amedeo.
‘Shock,’ corrected Enrico.
‘One minute we were facing ruin—’
‘Bankruptcy.’
‘Quite... losing our biggest customer—’
‘But how were we going to pay back what we owe—’
‘Five hundred and ten pounds we had to borrow.’
I wished they would come to the point of their visit, and so indeed must have Mr Holmes. He listened to them without interrupting. The brothers finally revealed that they would be greatly relieved to find out who were their mysterious benefactors, stressing that they had never asked anybody to come to their rescue in that manner.
‘We are God-fearing Catholics, we are.’
‘We are related to the—’
‘Distantly...’
‘The holy father in the Vatican.’
‘As such we would never do anything likely to taint his exalted image.’
‘Of course,’ Holmes said with not one hint of impatience. They then gave my employer the note that I had written and the Ace of diamonds. Mr Holmes promised to look into the matter after which they left.
Later, Mr Homes will claim that he had known my true identity soon after I arrived at Number 221B under the guise of Mrs Hudson. As I know him to be scrupulously honest, I will offer a conjecture based on what Professor Sigmund Freud calls the conscious and the subconscious.My arguments rests on the fact that in the short period when he comes out of his cocaine torpor, in a state between slumber and waking, he often call me Miss Adler. In fact he talks to me, not as to Mrs Hudson the lowly housekeeper, but to someone he respects, or might even be in awe of. I am not making this up. When he is fully awake (recovered?), he seems completely unaware of whatever had passed between the two of us. He could have been a dissimulator, but I rather doubt that.
After the Italians had left, he sat at his desk for upward of three hours, pumping heavily on his pipe, his eyes glazed over, refusing to even acknowledge my offer of a pot of Darjeeling, in a pose I recognised as indicative of deep concentration. I would espy him occasionally picking up the note I had written in one hand and peering at it through the large magnifying glass that he keeps in the right hand drawer of his large desk. I saw him squeeze his face as one in pain and shake his head wearily once or twice. Once he picked the ace and after hardly glancing at it he put it down. It held no interest for him.
Obviously I did not wish his findings to lead to me, but I knew that he would not rest until he had solved the riddle. After just over three hours he stood up and as I feared he directed his steps towards the small triangular cabinet fixed in one corner between two adjacent walls at the height of an average adult. With the one key he always keeps in his waistcoat pocket, he opened its glass door. The torment he was experiencing was manifest. I so abhorred his indulgence in the white powder that I found it hard to resist running over to him and making a clean breast of my part in the affair. Helplessly I watched him injecting himself and then collapsing in his large chair, blinking, at first furiously, but with a surprising deceleration until his eyes became fully closed and his eyelids stationary.
There was nothing I could do for him, and I went to attend to
‘No,’ said Amedeo, ‘no crime was committed against us.’
‘Nor did we do anything unlawful.’
‘But clearly a crime had been committed,’ pursued Enrico Frostini.
‘Imagine our surprise,’ said Amedeo.
‘Shock,’ corrected Enrico.
‘One minute we were facing ruin—’
‘Bankruptcy.’
‘Quite... losing our biggest customer—’
‘But how were we going to pay back what we owe—’
‘Five hundred and ten pounds we had to borrow.’
I wished they would come to the point of their visit, and so indeed must have Mr Holmes. He listened to them without interrupting. The brothers finally revealed that they would be greatly relieved to find out who were their mysterious benefactors, stressing that they had never asked anybody to come to their rescue in that manner.
‘We are God-fearing Catholics, we are.’
‘We are related to the—’
‘Distantly...’
‘The holy father in the Vatican.’
‘As such we would never do anything likely to taint his exalted image.’
‘Of course,’ Holmes said with not one hint of impatience. They then gave my employer the note that I had written and the Ace of diamonds. Mr Holmes promised to look into the matter after which they left.
Later, Mr Homes will claim that he had known my true identity soon after I arrived at Number 221B under the guise of Mrs Hudson. As I know him to be scrupulously honest, I will offer a conjecture based on what Professor Sigmund Freud calls the conscious and the subconscious.My arguments rests on the fact that in the short period when he comes out of his cocaine torpor, in a state between slumber and waking, he often call me Miss Adler. In fact he talks to me, not as to Mrs Hudson the lowly housekeeper, but to someone he respects, or might even be in awe of. I am not making this up. When he is fully awake (recovered?), he seems completely unaware of whatever had passed between the two of us. He could have been a dissimulator, but I rather doubt that.
After the Italians had left, he sat at his desk for upward of three hours, pumping heavily on his pipe, his eyes glazed over, refusing to even acknowledge my offer of a pot of Darjeeling, in a pose I recognised as indicative of deep concentration. I would espy him occasionally picking up the note I had written in one hand and peering at it through the large magnifying glass that he keeps in the right hand drawer of his large desk. I saw him squeeze his face as one in pain and shake his head wearily once or twice. Once he picked the ace and after hardly glancing at it he put it down. It held no interest for him.
Obviously I did not wish his findings to lead to me, but I knew that he would not rest until he had solved the riddle. After just over three hours he stood up and as I feared he directed his steps towards the small triangular cabinet fixed in one corner between two adjacent walls at the height of an average adult. With the one key he always keeps in his waistcoat pocket, he opened its glass door. The torment he was experiencing was manifest. I so abhorred his indulgence in the white powder that I found it hard to resist running over to him and making a clean breast of my part in the affair. Helplessly I watched him injecting himself and then collapsing in his large chair, blinking, at first furiously, but with a surprising deceleration until his eyes became fully closed and his eyelids stationary.
There was nothing I could do for him, and I went to attend to
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