Read Online The Memoirs of Irene Adler: The Irene Adler Trilogy by San Cassimally - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: San Cassimally
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my household chores. Two hours later, I went to check whether he had come out of his torpor and wanted anything.
‘Oh, Miss Adler,’ he began falteringly. ‘You tricked me that day, eh? Come sit down here.’ He extended an arm in the direction of a chair opposite him, usually reserved for his visitors and whose most recent occupant had been Signor Amedeo Frostini.
‘Miss Adler,’ he went on the moment I had occupied the seat. ‘I hope you never indulge in heroin as I do. I wish I could wean myself away. I have tried, but it’s damn difficult, I’m telling you.’ I nodded but said nothing.
‘As someone who makes a living by using his mental faculties, I took the worse decision in my life when, in my misguided search for knowledge I tried that accursed stuff. It’s only today that I realise the full extent of its potential to harm. Far from enhancing your clarity of thought, it dulls it.’ I looked at him questioningly.
‘Take a look at this note.’ I took it from him and pretended to study it intently.
‘Do you know what it tells me?’
‘I hope not that its author is one Irene Adler,’ I refrained from saying, and only demurred.
‘I know exactly who wrote it—’
‘Yes?’
‘The perpetrator is in this room,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ I hoped he was not going to do anything to cause damage to me and my friends.
‘But I will own to having no memory at all, none whatsoever of breaking into the Frostini Fratelli’s establishment. Neither can I discover how I got hold of all the stuff which was delivered.’ I was too stunned to react. Had I heard right? Had he come to the conclusion that he was the one who carried out the heist? ‘How could you have carried out the heist, Mr Holmes, sir?
‘As I was saying.’ He pointed to the syringe on his desk, ‘This vile stuff makes even the strongest individual lose all touch with reality, all inhibitions, all sense of what’s right and wrong. Why, Miss Adler, under its noxious influence, a good man might even commit a murder without batting an eyelid.’ I was completely dumbfounded.
‘I must have had an accomplice. I could never have moved all that merchandise by myself and I’m damned if I know who helped me. Certainly not the virtuous Dr Watson. Do you believe that in my drugged state, I might have developed superhuman strength? I had never heard of those wretched brothers before. Miss Adler, do you believe in the supernatural?’ I knew that he did not expect an answer.
‘But what makes you arrive at this extraordinary conclusion, sir? I mean that you—’ He taps the letter which was now in front of him.
‘The note. There isn’t the slightest doubt that it was written by me. As you may know... or perhaps not... I wrote a monograph on Graphology, a subject on which I have devoted considerable time and energy studying, in which I describe how I arrived at the conclusion that no two people can have the same handwriting. You must promise me that you will read it one day.’ He passes to me my note and a sheet of his notes which he had been studying all afternoon.
‘Here, compare the formation, the shape and the size of the letters in the two…eh… identical in every respect.’ I began to see the light, but I had no memory of having consciously copied his style of writing. The ghost of Herr Professor Freud must have held my hand as I wrote out the note.
‘That’s not all. Look at the spaces between the words, look at the slope of the lines, look at the distances between the punctuation marks and the words on their side. Exact identity in every respect! No one on earth could have...’ he did not finish his sentence and shook his head most vehemently before adding emphatically. ‘Impossible!’ You could hear the exclamation mark clunk in besides the word.
What can I say? My hitherto lukewarm acceptance of Mr Freud’s theories of the subconscious immediately hardened. ‘Oh, Miss Adler, you must promise me that you will never reveal a
‘Oh, Miss Adler,’ he began falteringly. ‘You tricked me that day, eh? Come sit down here.’ He extended an arm in the direction of a chair opposite him, usually reserved for his visitors and whose most recent occupant had been Signor Amedeo Frostini.
‘Miss Adler,’ he went on the moment I had occupied the seat. ‘I hope you never indulge in heroin as I do. I wish I could wean myself away. I have tried, but it’s damn difficult, I’m telling you.’ I nodded but said nothing.
‘As someone who makes a living by using his mental faculties, I took the worse decision in my life when, in my misguided search for knowledge I tried that accursed stuff. It’s only today that I realise the full extent of its potential to harm. Far from enhancing your clarity of thought, it dulls it.’ I looked at him questioningly.
‘Take a look at this note.’ I took it from him and pretended to study it intently.
‘Do you know what it tells me?’
‘I hope not that its author is one Irene Adler,’ I refrained from saying, and only demurred.
‘I know exactly who wrote it—’
‘Yes?’
‘The perpetrator is in this room,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ I hoped he was not going to do anything to cause damage to me and my friends.
‘But I will own to having no memory at all, none whatsoever of breaking into the Frostini Fratelli’s establishment. Neither can I discover how I got hold of all the stuff which was delivered.’ I was too stunned to react. Had I heard right? Had he come to the conclusion that he was the one who carried out the heist? ‘How could you have carried out the heist, Mr Holmes, sir?
‘As I was saying.’ He pointed to the syringe on his desk, ‘This vile stuff makes even the strongest individual lose all touch with reality, all inhibitions, all sense of what’s right and wrong. Why, Miss Adler, under its noxious influence, a good man might even commit a murder without batting an eyelid.’ I was completely dumbfounded.
‘I must have had an accomplice. I could never have moved all that merchandise by myself and I’m damned if I know who helped me. Certainly not the virtuous Dr Watson. Do you believe that in my drugged state, I might have developed superhuman strength? I had never heard of those wretched brothers before. Miss Adler, do you believe in the supernatural?’ I knew that he did not expect an answer.
‘But what makes you arrive at this extraordinary conclusion, sir? I mean that you—’ He taps the letter which was now in front of him.
‘The note. There isn’t the slightest doubt that it was written by me. As you may know... or perhaps not... I wrote a monograph on Graphology, a subject on which I have devoted considerable time and energy studying, in which I describe how I arrived at the conclusion that no two people can have the same handwriting. You must promise me that you will read it one day.’ He passes to me my note and a sheet of his notes which he had been studying all afternoon.
‘Here, compare the formation, the shape and the size of the letters in the two…eh… identical in every respect.’ I began to see the light, but I had no memory of having consciously copied his style of writing. The ghost of Herr Professor Freud must have held my hand as I wrote out the note.
‘That’s not all. Look at the spaces between the words, look at the slope of the lines, look at the distances between the punctuation marks and the words on their side. Exact identity in every respect! No one on earth could have...’ he did not finish his sentence and shook his head most vehemently before adding emphatically. ‘Impossible!’ You could hear the exclamation mark clunk in besides the word.
What can I say? My hitherto lukewarm acceptance of Mr Freud’s theories of the subconscious immediately hardened. ‘Oh, Miss Adler, you must promise me that you will never reveal a
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