Read Online The Memoirs of Irene Adler: The Irene Adler Trilogy by San Cassimally - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: San Cassimally
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word of this to any soul.’ I nodded vigorously, at which he opened his eyes wide, stared at me and said, ‘Ah Mrs Hudson, what are you doing here? Ah yes, I would indeed like that pot of Darjeeling, thank you kindly.’
t the risk of being tiresome and repetitive, I will (at Mr Reynold’s suggestion) briefly mention the membership: Armande was the owner of the premises and I was her only permanent lodger. Lord Clarihoe rented a room, but he did not, as a rule, stay here more than once or twice in any given week. There was the Bishop (an ex-vicar really), the thespian Hugh Probert, now forcibly retired, the Russian revolutionary aristocrat Ivan Vissarionovich Chekhonte, Artémise Traverson the unrecognised genius of a painter who was a friend of Edouard Manet, the tenor Coleridge, whose grandfather was a slave, Bartola, once a
chanteuse
from Montepulciano who definitely did
not
poison her husband, and the Swiss financial wizard Anatole Frunk. They all had their own places now but had at one time or another been a lodger here. As Armande’s place was huge, she often provided them with free accommodation in her basement when the need arose, or on a whim. She had money to roast, was how she put it.
In the beginning the
Club
was just a pretext for friends to gather round a few bottles of champagne and a plate of pâté de foie gras or bonbons, play games and put the world to rights. Both Clarihoe and Armande had deep pockets and were generous to a fault. If any blame is to be apportioned regarding the turn the events would take later- and I dispute the necessity for that- then I must offer my shoulder with the words
mea culpa
writ large on it. Having witnessed Coleville-Mountdown’s clumsy kleptomania, I had first parried and then in an unexpected
contra-riposte
, ended up with
his
laden wallet. That was a seminal moment in the history of the
Club
. To begin with I was invited to one of their soirées where I was fêted as a heroine and declared anatural for the
As
. My new friends never tired of asking me to recount the episode, and the actress in me, thriving in public applause happily obliged.
One evening a short while later, Bartola, in her meek unassertive voice, out of the blue asked what was wrong with stealing from the wicked. It all started from there, and the association was redefined. The
Club
had then set itself the aim of righting wrongs. We always tried to act for the have-nots. As we were all iconoclasts, the criteria for our actions were not always geared to what was generally considered legal. We never used violence (except on rare occasions), we never killed (except once) and we would only steal from the undeserving rich (and give most of our acquisitions to the poor).
We would usually assemble at Water Lane two or three evenings a week for games, gastronomic indulgences, discussions and story-telling. Wednesday night was when most people made it a point to turn up, and this was the night when we dealt with official business and asked questions: Are we in need of resources? Did any deserving creature require our help? Should we plan a heist? Was there someone who needed to have some sense knocked into them?
Although Lord Clarihoe had never hidden his homophile nature from us, he seemed to be spending more and more time at Water Lane. This was a bit unsettling for it was obvious that I was the cause of this. I adored him as a friend, but preferred an uncomplicated life.
One morning the three of us we were having breakfast when Armande went to fetch some fig jam in her
cave
. Algernon looked at me suddenly and said, ‘If you were a man, Irene, you and I would have been made for each other.’
‘But I might not have been a Uranian,’ I objected. He was not listening.
‘Or if I were a woman,’ he mused.
‘I have no Sapphic inclinations,’ I countered.
‘Come off it, all women do.’
‘Algernon, wouldn’t it have been much simpler if we were
both
heterosexual?’ He looked at me, eyes and
t the risk of being tiresome and repetitive, I will (at Mr Reynold’s suggestion) briefly mention the membership: Armande was the owner of the premises and I was her only permanent lodger. Lord Clarihoe rented a room, but he did not, as a rule, stay here more than once or twice in any given week. There was the Bishop (an ex-vicar really), the thespian Hugh Probert, now forcibly retired, the Russian revolutionary aristocrat Ivan Vissarionovich Chekhonte, Artémise Traverson the unrecognised genius of a painter who was a friend of Edouard Manet, the tenor Coleridge, whose grandfather was a slave, Bartola, once a
chanteuse
from Montepulciano who definitely did
not
poison her husband, and the Swiss financial wizard Anatole Frunk. They all had their own places now but had at one time or another been a lodger here. As Armande’s place was huge, she often provided them with free accommodation in her basement when the need arose, or on a whim. She had money to roast, was how she put it.
In the beginning the
Club
was just a pretext for friends to gather round a few bottles of champagne and a plate of pâté de foie gras or bonbons, play games and put the world to rights. Both Clarihoe and Armande had deep pockets and were generous to a fault. If any blame is to be apportioned regarding the turn the events would take later- and I dispute the necessity for that- then I must offer my shoulder with the words
mea culpa
writ large on it. Having witnessed Coleville-Mountdown’s clumsy kleptomania, I had first parried and then in an unexpected
contra-riposte
, ended up with
his
laden wallet. That was a seminal moment in the history of the
Club
. To begin with I was invited to one of their soirées where I was fêted as a heroine and declared anatural for the
As
. My new friends never tired of asking me to recount the episode, and the actress in me, thriving in public applause happily obliged.
One evening a short while later, Bartola, in her meek unassertive voice, out of the blue asked what was wrong with stealing from the wicked. It all started from there, and the association was redefined. The
Club
had then set itself the aim of righting wrongs. We always tried to act for the have-nots. As we were all iconoclasts, the criteria for our actions were not always geared to what was generally considered legal. We never used violence (except on rare occasions), we never killed (except once) and we would only steal from the undeserving rich (and give most of our acquisitions to the poor).
We would usually assemble at Water Lane two or three evenings a week for games, gastronomic indulgences, discussions and story-telling. Wednesday night was when most people made it a point to turn up, and this was the night when we dealt with official business and asked questions: Are we in need of resources? Did any deserving creature require our help? Should we plan a heist? Was there someone who needed to have some sense knocked into them?
Although Lord Clarihoe had never hidden his homophile nature from us, he seemed to be spending more and more time at Water Lane. This was a bit unsettling for it was obvious that I was the cause of this. I adored him as a friend, but preferred an uncomplicated life.
One morning the three of us we were having breakfast when Armande went to fetch some fig jam in her
cave
. Algernon looked at me suddenly and said, ‘If you were a man, Irene, you and I would have been made for each other.’
‘But I might not have been a Uranian,’ I objected. He was not listening.
‘Or if I were a woman,’ he mused.
‘I have no Sapphic inclinations,’ I countered.
‘Come off it, all women do.’
‘Algernon, wouldn’t it have been much simpler if we were
both
heterosexual?’ He looked at me, eyes and
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