Tomas Dubsky

Irene Adler – The Crown of Lies

Prologue: Echoes of Westminster

Chapter One: The Mists Over London

London, February 1902

The fog that crept along the banks of the Thames that morning was no ordinary London haze. It was thick as vengeance, heavy as the crown awaiting its new king. In the streets, adorned with flags and portraits of Edward VII, unrest hung in the air. Queen Victoria had been dead a year after fifty-six years of reign, but her son—a man whispered to have more debts than dignity—had yet to be crowned. And already, something was amiss.

The Pall Mall Gazette, February 15, 1902

"Sources within the Tower confirm that St. Edward’s Crown, the sceptre, and the orb have undergone an 'extraordinary inspection.' The reason? Our informant claims discrepancies were found in the engravings on the crown’s cross—tiny sapphires, said to have been set during the reign of George III, were missing. The royal household dismisses it as 'routine maintenance,' but why then was the work done at night?"

The Times, Letter to the Editor (February 18, 1902)

"Dear Editor, why does no one ask who guarded the jewels on the night of the 12th? My brother, a guardsman, saw a cloaked man enter the Tower bearing the crest of the lion and the unicorn—the very emblem of the exiled Stuarts! Could this be the start of a new conspiracy?"

London in Waiting

At the Tower of London, where the Crown Jewels lay under the watchful eyes of the Beefeaters, the guards rotated every two hours. Stricter measures were enacted after reports surfaced of missing gemstones—or rather, switched  ones, as whispered by conspiratorial minds in Mayfair clubs and Covent Garden flower stalls alike.

Edward VII’s coronation was set for July, and by February, London—thrumming with the modernity of a new century—buzzed with anticipation. Electric lamps cast pallid light over streets thick with the scent of coal, rain, and the faint promise of change. Evening salons debated whether the new monarch would be more French libertine than English king—it was no secret Edward had a taste for Parisian cabarets and costly wines.

Yet beneath the excitement lay an odd tension. With Queen Victoria’s sudden death, her reign having seemed eternal, many felt like orphans. The old world was fading, and with it, Victorian values. And in this uncertainty, rumors flourished—of forged regalia, traitors among the guards, secret societies yearning for the return of the Stuarts.

Strange figures began lurking near the Tower at night. One watchman swore he saw a veiled woman in black vanish near the White Tower. Another claimed to have heard Latin chanting from the ancient vaults. And when a guard named Wilmot fell down the stairs on February 20, some said it was no accident. That he had seen something he shouldn’t have.

Though officials denied it all, London lived under the shadow of two questions:

Was the new king fit to rule? And was the crown meant for his head even real?

Chapter Two: A Letter from a Friend

Paris, Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, February 25, 1902

While London’s fog mingled with suspicion and the Tower drowned in whispered scandals, Paris simmered with a different tension—elegant, perfumed, almost careless. The Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré pulsed with fashion and diplomacy. Lace curtains muffled the clatter of carriage wheels and the click of polished boots. The air smelled of fresh pastries, cold marble, and Guerlain’s Jicky  perfume.

On the third floor of a townhouse with a blue wrought-iron gate, opposite the Swiss consulate, lived a woman the world knew as Irene Adler—though she herself would say names were as changeable as hairstyles or fates.

Irene pressed a letter clipped from the Morning Post  against a lamp. In the orange glow, hidden words surfaced:

"Seek the man with the ring shaped like a triple crown. He knows where the truth lies. – P."

She recognized this ink trick—Parisian spies had used it during the Boulanger affair. Now it resurfaced like a ghost from the past.

Irene Adler’s Notebook

"P.—Friend? Or trap? In 1890, Dunning used the same signature. But Dunning is dead. Or is he?"

Carefully, she tucked the paper into a hidden pocket of her traveling case, beside a miniature revolver and a vial of blue lipstick—the kind laced with belladonna and strychnine.

A Visit to the Jeweler

At Boucheron on Place Vendôme, where jewels were sold to Russian grand duchesses and Egyptian pashas, she requested to view sapphire brooches.

"I seek something... old,"  she said in French, with a faint Hungarian lilt. "From the time of le Roi Soleil, perhaps."

The jeweler, a man with bottle-thick spectacles, stiffened. "Madame, we do not carry such pieces. But you might visit Monsieur Vernier near Pont Neuf. He specializes in... historical restorations."

He stressed restorations  in a way that told Irene everything: this was about recutting stolen gems.

The Stuart Trail

Vernier’s shop was a shabby hole with a window full of brass watches. Inside, however, the walls bore sketches of coronation regalia from across Europe—including detailed engravings of St. Edward’s Crown.

"This design,"  Vernier whispered when Irene touched one drawing, "was commissioned by a certain lord three months ago. He claimed it was for a... private theatrical."

"What did he look like?"

"He wore a ring with a strange emblem. Three crowns entwined with a serpent."

Irene’s breath steadied. The triple crown. Just as the letter said.

"Where is this lord now?"

Vernier hesitated. "Last week, he left for London. Said he was invited to the coronation."

Return to the Dark

Two days later, Irene stood aboard the steamer La Reine Margot , bound for Dover. In her purse lay Vernier’s sketch—and in her memory, his final warning:

"That man, madame... his eyes were too calm. You only see that in men who’ve already decided to take your life."

Behind her, on the Calais docks, a tall man in a gray coat lingered. She didn’t see him. But he watched her every step.

Mycroft Holmes lit a cigar and exhaled slowly.

"So we begin again, Miss Adler,"  he murmured.

Act One: The Shadow of the Stuarts

Chapter Three: The Lady in White Gloves

London, March 3, 1902

The La Reine Margot  docked at Dover at dusk, as the fog turned to rain. Irene Adler descended the gangway as Madame Véronique—a French jeweler with a letter of introduction from Boucheron. In her hand, a black leather case held tools she would never use to restore jewels, but to pry open what Britain so carefully hid.

Accommodations: The Hotel Cecil

A French jeweler with Parisian manners and references from Van Cleef & Arpels could have chosen no better refuge. London’s newest, most opulent hotel, built in 1896, was a slap to Victorian restraint. Gold-trimmed lifts, electric lighting, and liveried staff in royal purple—the perfect stage for a true French aristocrat.

"Suite 312, overlooking the Thames,"  the porter announced with a bow, eyeing her jewels.

The room soon filled with the scent of tuberoses and the whisper of silk. The staff murmured that Madame had imported her own French coffee and three tins of Parisian soil— "for hands too delicate for coarse English air."

First Steps in London’s Jewelry Society

On the morning of March 6, she entered Garrard & Co. on Haymarket, flanked by two silent attendants. Her Worth gown, gray as London’s storm-threatened sky, rustled with each step.

"Madame Véronique,"  she introduced herself to the firm’s director, Charles Baldwin. "I come on the recommendation of the Duchess of Marlborough. She said yours is the only house in London that understands true glyptic art."

Baldwin—a man with a beard sharp as a Venetian doge’s—paled. The Duchess was his best client.

"How... delightful,"  he lied. "How may I assist?"

"The Crown Jewels,"  she whispered, as if it were taboo. "I suspect their maintenance techniques are... outdated."

A Masterful Play

Three days later, during a private viewing at the Tower, she stood before a replica of the royal scepter. Her gloved fingers brushed the glass.

"You see the difference in the light’s refraction on the cross?"  she pointed out to Baldwin. "The original has diamonds set at 42 degrees. This one... perhaps 38."

The elderly guard, a soldier with an Afghan medal, blanched. "That’s impossible to know unless—"

"—Unless you’ve taken the jewels apart,"  she finished. "Which, as I understand, happened last Thursday. For a ‘special inspection.’"

A silence fell, sharp enough to cut glass.

Trust Gained

That evening, Baldwin invited her to The Goldsmiths’ private club. In a smoke-filled room lined with portraits of dead kings, he offered her sherry.

"She’s not just a jeweler,"  he told his colleagues. "She’s a historian. She knows St. Edward’s Crown bears the date 1661 engraved beneath—the year Charles II had it remade after that... unpleasantness with Cromwell."

Irene’s eyes gleamed in the dim light. "And do you know what else I know? That someone swapped the crown’s sapphires for Brazilian stones. And you can tell,"  she raised her glass to the light, "because they lack the blood hue. Stuart sapphires always held a drop of blood. Rubrum signum Stuartorum—the mark of true sapphires."

According to Vernier, it was an old Scottish legend, first recorded by a monk named Alastair of Iona around 1640. The tale claimed James II had four sapphires set into the crown—stones said to contain microscopic inclusions of dark red, a drop of blood from each executed Stuart, symbolically fused into the gems by alchemists in Elgin.

These sapphires were different—darker, their blue shifting to violet under certain light, as if vibrating with martyrdom. After the Stuarts’ fall, the stones were allegedly removed in secret and replaced with common Brazilian gems during George III’s reign. Only a few goldsmiths passed down the secret of spotting a true  Stuart sapphire.

"A sapphire without shadow is mere glass. A Stuart sapphire bleeds in silence."

At that moment, she knew she’d been accepted. Baldwin’s whisper confirmed it:

"Tomorrow at five. The Tower’s north gate. You’ll see what you need to see."

Irene Adler’s Notebook

"London’s jewelers are like their stones—hard, but flawed. One only needs to know where to press."

"That old guard... his eyes spoke louder than words. He’s afraid. But of Ashbury? Or of what they found beneath the Tower?"

Act Two: Playing with Fire

Chapter Six: The House with Seven Keys

London, Crown Lane, March 9, 1902 – 6:47 PM

Crown Lane was one of those streets London preferred not to show to outsiders. Narrow, its cobblestones so broken that carriages slowed to a funeral pace. The houses bore the shabby charm of lost time—bricks weathered by wind and grime, facades stripped to the bone. Gas lamps hissed in the damp, casting cones of light into the fog, where the shadows of rats and stray cats flickered.

Number 7 looked no worse than its neighbors, yet it exuded a chill. It stood shorter than the surrounding buildings, its windows barred with iron thick enough to resemble prison cells rather than a townhouse. The door was heavy oak, unremarkable at first glance—save for the seven locks, each different, each embedded at a different point in the frame. The metal edges were worn with use, but the center one gleamed newer than the rest.

Irene Adler—still in the guise of Madame Véronique—ran her fingers over Baldwin’s key. This only opens the middle lock , she thought. With a soft click, the key turned, and the wood groaned as if the house were reluctantly yielding its secrets.

Entering Baldwin’s Secret

Inside, the silence was tomb-like. The drizzle outside drummed against the windowpanes, droplets sliding down like tears. Irene struck a match and lit the gas lamp. The flame illuminated a hallway with wooden paneling, its polish long faded. The air was stale, thick with the scent of wax, old paper, and something sharper—iron and ink.

First Floor – The Study

The stairs creaked underfoot. The walls bore only faint outlines where frames had once hung, now existing solely in memory. The study was smaller than Irene had expected—cozy but cluttered. Shelves sagged under the weight of books, some bound in leather straps, others crumbling into loose leaves. On the desk lay sketches of the Crown Jewels, each annotated in Baldwin’s hand:

"St. Edward’s Crown—crack on the left arch, visible only at a 45° angle."

"Scepter—sapphires set in a different order than the original (see 1871 photograph)."

In the drawer, she found a carefully folded letter bearing Lord Ashbury’s wax seal:

"My friend, the exchange must occur before March 26. The guard Peterson is no longer a problem. Next is the goldsmith Vernier—he has seen too much."

Irene frowned. Too explicit. As if he wanted it to be found.

Proof of Forgery

Holding the sketch to the lamplight revealed what ordinary light concealed—faint but precise lines detailing how the crown had been disassembled and reassembled. Incorrectly.  The same flaw as in Garrard’s replica. Someone had worked from a false template. Or wanted her to think so.

Then came the creak of the stairs.

The Journalist in the Shadows

A young woman stood in the doorway, her hat dripping, a notebook clutched in her hand. Rain streaked her coat, but her gaze was razor-sharp.

"Madame Véronique,"  she said, "or should I say Miss Adler?"

Irene turned slowly. "I haven’t heard that name in twelve years, darling. And you are...?"

"Eleanor Hardwick of the Pall Mall Gazette. I’m writing about how someone is swapping the Crown Jewels for fakes."  Her eyes flicked to the sketches on the desk. "I’ve been following you since the Tower."

Irene’s gaze darted to the window, where a shadow shifted. "That was unwise, Miss Hardwick. You may have just signed your own death warrant."

"Like Baldwin?"  Eleanor pointed to the bloodstained imprint. "What happened to him? Why hasn’t his body been found?"

Outside, heavy boots thudded against the pavement.

Escape

Irene blew out the lamp. "If you want to live, follow me."

She dragged Eleanor through the back door just as the front door of No. 7 splintered under the force of men’s shoulders.

Irene Adler’s Notebook

"House No. 7—Baldwin’s insurance. The sketches are genuine, but Ashbury’s letter... that’s a trap. Why leave such evidence lying about?"

"That journalist. Young. Hungry for truth. Exactly the kind I’d use as bait."

"Tomorrow, I visit Vernier. And this time, I’ll go armed."

In her coat pocket, a sliver of sapphire trembled—cold as Thames water. And outside, veiled by fog, someone stood. Motionless. Waiting. Watching as Irene’s carriage vanished into London’s labyrinth of shadows.

Chapter Seven: The Journalist with a Sharp Pen

London, The Cheshire Cheese, March 10, 1902 – 11:15 AM

The Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street smelled of a century’s pipe smoke, stale ale, and the damp wood of its fireplace. The ceiling beams, blackened by time, sagged low as if eavesdropping on every conversation. Lawyers, printers, and clerks hunched over tea and potato pies, the room humming with rustling newspapers and murmured debates.

Irene Adler sat in the corner by the hearth—where Samuel Pepys himself had once warmed his hands. Now, it offered a clear view of the room and a wall at her back. Public enough to deter murder, noisy enough for privacy.

The door burst open, and Eleanor Hardwick stormed in, cheeks flushed with anger and rain. Her hat was askew, her eyes wide as if she’d fled something—or someone.

"Explain this, Madame,"  she hissed, dropping into the chair opposite Irene. "Why does Scotland Yard claim Baldwin’s body was pulled from the Thames? Why does Rothschild’s bank have records of payments to men in the royal household? And who raided Baldwin’s house after us?"

A Game of Truth

Irene ordered black tea—the plainest kind—from an old waiter who nodded wordlessly around his pipe.

"Miss Hardwick,"  she said calmly, "you write for the Pall Mall Gazette, yes? The paper that exposed the child bride trade two years ago?"

Eleanor reddened—with pride and defiance. "Yes. And now I’m exposing how someone’s swapping the Crown Jewels! Baldwin was supposed to give me proof. Instead, he’s dead."

Irene slid a sapphire pendant across the table—a fake she’d commissioned from a dockside jeweler.

"This is what Baldwin found in St. Edward’s Crown,"  she lied smoothly. "Look at the hue—not British. It’s Ural sapphire. And do you know the only European noble who owns mines there?"

Eleanor leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Who?"

"Prince Alexei Orlov—cousin to the Tsar. That would explain the Rothschild transactions."

Who Stomped into Baldwin’s House?

Outside, a black carriage rattled past. The damp air carried the echo of hooves and a distant ship’s horn from the Thames.

Irene remembered those boots—heavy, leather, steel-toed. Not Scotland Yard’s. They belonged to the Yeomen Warders, the Tower guards. She’d recognized their tread. And they answered only to Sir Charles Warren—former head of the Yard, now on the coronation committee.

A Warning from the Dark

As Eleanor left, clutching the pendant, the doorman handed her an envelope. The paper was stiff, expensive, bearing no name—just three gold crowns interlaced in a circle.

Inside, it read:

"Stop digging in royal graves, Miss Hardwick. Or you’ll end up like Baldwin—lungs full of river water."

Irene Adler’s Notebook

"Eleanor is brave but naïve. My fake sapphire will lead her to Russia—exactly where ‘Friend’ wants eyes to look."

"Warren uses the royal guard as his private assassins. But why? Who is he protecting?"

"Tonight, I find Vernier. And this time, I go armed."

Outside, a tall man in a gray coat pretended to read a book. As Irene stepped into the fog, he turned a page—but his eyes never left her. Mycroft Holmes exhaled cigar smoke, then vanished like a ghost of London’s oldest secrets.

Chapter Eight: Lord Ashbury and the Shadow of the Stuarts

Carlton House, London, March 11, 1902 – 8:30 PM

Carlton House glittered like a diamond in the empire’s crown. A hundred candles in crystal chandeliers reflected off gilded walls lined with portraits of kings who had feasted here—including one who never wore the crown: James III, the "Old Pretender" of the Stuarts.

Irene Adler entered as Madame Véronique, a counterfeit Cartier diamond necklace (stolen from a German baroness the week prior) at her throat. Her emerald velvet gown whispered with each step, but no one heard the loaded revolver hidden beneath its skirts.

The Ring of Three Crowns

Lord Ashbury, a silver-fox of a man, greeted guests at the door. On his right pinky gleamed a ring—three interlaced crowns, identical to Dunning’s. When their eyes met, Irene saw a flicker of recognition.

"Madame Véronique,"  he bowed, "Garrard wrote of your... unusual interest in medieval engraving techniques."

"Indeed, my lord,"  she smiled, "particularly those used by Stuart goldsmiths. Such faithful replicas, no?"

Ashbury’s fingers tightened around the ring.

A Conversation Behind Closed Doors

In the library—where Ashbury excused himself to "select wine"—Irene overheard him speaking with Sir Charles Warren:

"...the ceremony must proceed as planned,"  Warren whispered. "The guards in the vaults will suffice until midnight. After that, it’s a matter of who holds the scepter."

"And Vernier?"  Ashbury asked.

"We’ll handle him. Just like the French—"

Warren turned, spotting Irene "admiring" the bookshelves.

"Madame! How... unexpected,"  he lied.

"Oh, I was merely looking for Mr. Strongith’s Histories of Coronations,"  she lied just as sweetly, pointing to an empty shelf. "The French regalia, you know, were also replaced with fakes during the Revolution."

The Map Beneath Westminster

When the men left, Irene searched the library. Behind a copy of the King James Bible (an irony not lost on her), she found a yellowed parchment—a map of the tunnels beneath Westminster Abbey. A red line led straight to the coronation chair. At the margin, it read:

"The exchange occurs at the third bell. The key lies with the one who wears the three crowns."

Irene Adler’s Notebook

"Ashbury is a puppet. Warren pulls the strings—but who pulls his? That ring... Dunning wore it. Ashbury wears it. Who is the third?"

"The tunnels lead straight to the throne. The coronation is in fourteen days."

"Vernier must know more. I must find him before they do to him what they did to Baldwin."

As she left Carlton House, she noticed the same carriage that had waited outside No. 7 on Crown Lane. But this time, it did not belong to Mycroft Holmes. On the driver’s seat sat a man with a scar across his brow—the same man who had stood outside Westminster Abbey in 1890.

Chapter Nine: Blood Money

Rothschild Bank, London, March 12, 1902 – 9:15 AM

The marble hall of Rothschild’s Bank at New Court was as cold as a tomb. Irene Adler, now impeccably disguised as Madame Claudette Beauvais, a Parisian auditing expert, laid a letter of introduction on the counter—complete with a forged Garrard & Co. seal, crafted with wax and gold dust.

"An inspection of the coronation accounts, as requested by the Prince of Wales himself,"  she said with the bored tone of a bureaucrat.

Numbers That Screamed

Leopold Rothschild, a man with piercing eyes and a razor smile, personally escorted her to the vault room. His fingers trailed over the ledger:

"Here you’ll find all transactions related to the coronation preparations from the past month. All in perfect order."

Yet Irene’s eyes immediately caught the entry from March 5:

£200,000 transferred to Account No. XCIII-666 at Bank in Winterthur (Zurich)

Recipient: "J. A. Crown & Co."

Memo: "Adjustment of ceremonial protocols per Clause VII."

"Which clause?"  she asked innocently.

Leopold’s smile faltered. "That is His Majesty’s private code. We are not at liberty—"

Then he leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper:

"Madame Beauvais, you are too clever to be an auditor. And I am too old to believe £200,000 was spent on floral arrangements."

His finger tapped a footnote: "Executed by: Lord A—, approved by W—."

A Hint of Betrayal

"Some loyalties are paid in pounds these days,"  Leopold added, sipping sherry. "Others... in blood. I don’t know who you really are, but if you’re looking for Vernier, you’re too late. He left for Zurich this morning."

Irene’s gaze flicked to the window, where the man in the gray coat loitered—the same one who had shadowed her since Carlton House. His hands were clenched as if gripping invisible reins.

Escape with a Clue

As she left, Irene slipped a scrap of the ledger—bearing the Swiss account number—into her sleeve. In the foyer, a messenger waited with a package:

"For Madame Véronique. From Mr. Vernier."

Inside lay a sapphire bracelet—identical to the one Violet Carlisle had worn in 1890. Engraved inside was:

"Seek the one who wears three crowns and rules the shadows. He knows where Baldwin is."

Irene Adler’s Notebook

"£200,000 to a Swiss account. Warren and Ashbury are buying silence. But whose?"

"Vernier fled—or was removed. That bracelet is a warning, not a gift."

"The man in gray is no servant of Ashbury’s. That look... I’d know it anywhere. He’s the same killer behind Dunning."

As her carriage pulled away, the man in gray finally moved. He opened his palm, revealing a ring with three intertwined crowns.

Chapter Ten: A Trap for the Keeper of Truth

London, March 13, 1902

Lestrade Makes an Arrest

Scotland Yard was shaken that morning by the arrest of Lord Ashbury. Inspector Lestrade stormed his Mayfair residence with evidence provided by an anonymous informant (a letter in Irene’s handwriting, which he recognized but would never admit):

- A scrap from Rothschild’s ledger showing the Zurich transfer

- Baldwin’s diary with a final entry about "the exchange before the coronation"

- A piece of parchment bearing Ashbury’s seal, found on Peterson’s corpse

"Lord Ashbury,"  Lestrade declared as constables ransacked the library, "you are under arrest for the murders of Guard Peterson and Goldsmith Baldwin."

Ashbury merely smirked, adjusting his triple-crown ring. "This will be an interesting trial, Inspector."

Warren Intervenes

Within two hours, Sir Charles Warren arrived at Scotland Yard with orders from the Home Secretary himself.

"Release him,"  he snapped. "You lack sufficient evidence. And the coronation cannot bear scandal."

Lestrade’s fists clenched. "He killed two men!"

"Could you prove that in court?"  Warren countered. "Or would you have to admit your key witness is Madame Véronique—a woman who doesn’t exist?"

The Attack on Eleanor

Eleanor Hardwick was leaving the Pall Mall Gazette  offices, her notebook full of damning evidence, when two men lunged from an alley. One struck her stomach; the other snatched her notes.

"Stop digging in royal graves, Miss,"  one whispered before vanishing into the fog.

The notebook—containing every name tied to the conspiracy—was burned that evening in a fireplace near Westminster.

Another Death at the Tower

Meanwhile, Irene slipped into the Tower under cover of darkness. In the workshop where the Crown Jewels were repaired, she found Edwards—the goldsmith responsible for the crown’s final adjustments.

He lay in a pool of blood, fingers clutching a ruby shard. The same hue as the stones in St. Edward’s Crown.

On the wall above him, scrawled in blood:

"24"

Irene Adler’s Notebook

"Ashbury is a puppet. Warren his protector. But the true 'Friend'? The one who wears three crowns and rules the shadows has royal blood."

"The ruby in Edwards’ hand isn’t from the crown. It’s older. Jacobite. Same as the one Lestrade found on Violet’s corpse."

"24 hours. That’s all we have left. Tomorrow night, the crown will turn to blood."

As she left the Tower, she noticed the same carriage that had pursued her since Rothschild’s. This time, it did not drive away. The door opened, and inside sat the man in the gray coat.

"Step in, Miss Adler,"  said a voice she hadn’t heard since Violet’s assassination. "We have much to discuss."

In his hand gleamed the triple-crown ring. And this time, it was not on his pinky—but on his index finger, the one that commands fate.

Act Three: Bloody Revelation

Chapter Eleven: Betrayal in the Archives

Westminster Abbey, March 14, 1902 – 3:17 AM

The darkness in the abbey archives was thick as ink, broken only by faint moonlight filtering through the Gothic windows. Irene Adler, clad in a dark servant’s uniform, unlocked an iron cabinet marked "Coronation Protocols 1685–1890"  with a key "forgotten" by one of the abbot’s assistants.

Dunning’s Haunting Legacy

In the dusty folios, she found the original blueprints from 1890—the very ones used in the plot to assassinate Queen Victoria. Scribbled in the margins were handwritten notes:

"Tunnel from Old Sacristy to throne—127 steps. Guard change at 23:52."

"The key is the crown itself—disassemble the left arch."

Then came the click of a revolver hammer behind her.

The Trap

"Madame Véronique,"  came Lord Ashbury’s voice, "or should I say Miss Adler? After twelve years, you’ve returned to finish what Dunning started?"

Behind him stood Sir Charles Warren, his face rigid with fury. "Scotland Yard already has a report of your theft of state secrets,"  he said. "This time, no hairpin will save you."

Irene straightened slowly. "You’re mistaken, gentlemen. I don’t want to steal the crown. I want to know why  you do."

A Letter from the Grave

She drew a yellowed letter from her dress, its seal bearing Violet Carlisle’s mark.

"Read it,"  she said. "Before her death, Violet wrote: 'Ashbury funded Dunning’s seals. He is the one who tied the Stuart fanatics to the Crown Jewels.' And here’s the proof."

She pointed to an attached Rothschild bank record—a £50,000 transfer dated December 1, 1890, to "Project KR"  with Ashbury’s signature.

Warren paled. "That’s a forgery!"

"Like the sapphires in the crown?"  Irene shot back.

A Royal Crisis in the Shadows

Suddenly, shouts erupted from the street: "Prince of Wales hospitalized! Coronation postponed!"

Ashbury’s eyes widened. "This is... excellent news,"  he said with forced calm.

Irene’s gaze was sharp as a blade. "Excellent for whom, my lord? For you—or for the one who wears your rings?"

Then, in the distance, a third bell tolled—the same that had signaled Dunning’s attack years before.

Irene Adler’s Notebook

"Ashbury was afraid. Warren trembled. But neither is the true 'Friend.' He still waits in the shadows."

"Edward’s illness is no accident. It’s part of the plan—chaos in which the crown will vanish."

"24 hours remain. I must find Lestrade before they do what failed in 1890."

As she slipped through the window into the night, she noticed a sapphire shard on the pavement—the same as the one found on Peterson’s corpse. This time, however, it was set in a small golden triangle.

Chapter Twelve: Lestrade’s Revenge

Ashbury’s Residence, Mayfair, March 14, 1902 – 10:45 AM

Sunlight pierced the heavy drapes of Ashbury’s study, where Inspector Lestrade stood with a hammer in hand. The wall behind the portrait of James II looked suspiciously smooth—as if recently rebuilt.

The first strike shattered the plaster. The second revealed a wooden panel. The third opened the way to a hidden compartment.

Evidence in the Wall

Inside lay:

- Parchment maps of Westminster’s underground—marked with a route from the Old Sacristy straight to the throne. Red notes read:

"Guard change at 23:52."

"Key pillar—turn right."

Identical to Dunning’s 1890 documents.

- A Rothschild ledger page listing names and payments:

Sir Charles Warren—£75,000

Vernier (goldsmith)—£25,000

Colonel Devereaux—"for special services"

At the top: *"Payment via Account XCIII-666, Zurich. Coronation = Day X."*

Lestrade’s fingers dug into the paper. Irene was right.

The Turning Point

Then came the click of a pistol behind him.

"Looking for something, Inspector?"

Ashbury’s valet stood in the doorway, revolver in hand. Lestrade recognized him—one of the men who guarded the Tower.

"Lord Ashbury requests your presence at Scotland Yard,"  the man continued. "Sir Warren has just signed your transfer to Yorkshire."

Lestrade slowly set the documents down. "Tell Lord Ashbury Yorkshire has lovely... cemeteries."

He drew his service revolver.

Too Late

By the time Lestrade reached Scotland Yard, Ashbury was already free. The official statement read: "Insufficient evidence."

Warren handed him an order bearing the Home Secretary’s seal: "Immediate reassignment to northern division. Case closed."

Irene Adler’s Notebook

"I trust you’ve seen the same plans. The tunnels under Westminster, the Swiss payments... But Ashbury is a puppet. The true 'Friend' wears a triple-crown ring and waits for his moment."

"Edward VII lies feverish. The coronation will be delayed. And in that chaos, the crown will vanish—just like twelve years ago."

"Go home, Inspector. Tomorrow night, I’ll need your help—but officially, you’ll no longer exist."

Lestrade poured whisky into the fireplace and watched the flames consume his transfer orders. He knew that by tomorrow night, he’d either be arrested... or dead. And he no longer cared.

Chapter Thirteen: The Prince's Illness

Buckingham Palace, March 15, 1902 – 4:30 PM

The marble halls of Buckingham Palace were as silent as a tomb, broken only by the whispers of servants and the occasional clink of medical instruments. Irene Adler, now playing the role of Princess Alexandra’s maid, moved through the corridors with her head bowed, a basket of fresh towels in hand. Her steps were slow, nearly imperceptible, but her eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s.

A Royal Crisis

Behind the doors of the royal chambers, chaos reigned. Doctors in black frock coats clustered around the bed of Edward VII, his face contorted with fever. The Prince of Wales, the future king, lay in a half-delirious state while his wife Alexandra wept quietly in the corner.

"Peritonitis,"  one physician murmured. "The coronation must be postponed."

Irene’s ears caught what was left unspoken: This is no accident. Someone wants chaos.

The Man in the Gray Coat

In the antechamber stood Colonel Devereaux, a tall man with a scar across his brow and eyes like ice. On his right index finger gleamed a ring with three intertwined crowns—identical to Ashbury’s. Irene edged closer, pretending to adjust the drapes.

"Everything is prepared,"  Devereaux whispered to Sir Charles Warren, who appeared in the doorway. "The coronation will be delayed. And in that chaos, the crown will vanish."

Warren nodded, his eyes dark as coal. "Ashbury has secured the route. All that remains is to remove those who know too much."

Irene’s breath stilled. Vernier. Baldwin. Peterson. And now, perhaps, me.

Irene Adler’s Notebook

"Edward’s illness is no accident. It’s part of the plan—to create the confusion in which the crown will disappear."

"Devereaux wears the triple-crown ring. Is he the puppeteer? Or just another pawn?"

"Lestrade must be warned. But how, when Scotland Yard is already under Warren’s control?"

As she left the palace, she noticed the same carriage that had pursued her the previous night. This time, it did not drive away. The door opened, and inside sat Mycroft Holmes, his eyes telling her the game was up.

"Step in, Miss Adler,"  he said. "We have little time."

In his hand gleamed a key—small, antique, engraved with the number *24*.

Chapter Fourteen: The Hour of Truth

London, June 24, 1902 – Before Dawn

The dark waters of the Thames lapped silently against the stone walls of the Tower as fog wrapped the fortress in a deathly hush. Irene Adler and Inspector Lestrade crept through an underground passage, its walls damp with centuries of secrets. The light of their lanterns flickered over cobwebs and old bloodstains—silent witnesses to past betrayals.

Shadows in the Dark

At the heart of the underground, before the iron doors of the Jewel House, stood Lord Ashbury and Colonel Devereaux. Between them, St. Edward’s Crown glimmered, its sapphires glowing like frozen drops of blood in the darkness.

"It’s perfect,"  Ashbury whispered, his fingers trembling over the golden arches. "By tomorrow, London will scream for vengeance over the lost crown, and no one will believe the Stuarts stole it themselves."

Devereaux smirked. "And Prince Albert Victor will laugh from his grave one last time."

The Revelation

Irene’s breath caught. Albert Victor.  The dead son of Edward VII, whose name had been linked to secret lodges and Stuart nostalgia. All along, it had been his  will pulling the strings—through Ashbury, Warren, Devereaux. It was never about the crown. It was about the symbol. About who could hold it.

Lestrade moved for his revolver, but Irene stopped him. It was too late.

A Shot in the Dark

From the shadows emerged the man in the gray coat—the same who had pursued them from the beginning. His revolver roared, and Ashbury collapsed with surprise in his eyes before he could speak another word.

"Unnecessary testimony,"  the man said coldly, turning the gun toward Devereaux. "Colonel, you have your orders."

Devereaux knelt before the crown as if before a relic and drew from his coat an old parchment bearing the seal of James II. "For the king who never ruled,"  he whispered.

Irene Adler’s Notebook

"It was never about the crown. It was about who holds it. And we have lost."

"Albert Victor is dead, but his followers live on. In the dark, in the shadows, in the hearts of those who long for the old world."

"Lestrade knows the truth. But what can he do with it? He will never speak it. And I... I must disappear."

As the first light of dawn pierced the fog, Irene was already gone. On the banks of the Thames, only the imprint of her boot in the mud remained—and a shard of sapphire, glinting like a final taunt.

In the Tower, Sir Charles Warren announced that the crown was secure. And London awoke to a new day, unaware of how close it had come to a kingdom of lies.

The king’s physician raised an eyebrow, and Alexandra Caroline, the queen consort, gripped her fan tighter than usual—for in the June days of 1902, it seemed the coronation might not happen at all. Edward VII, a robust man with the face of a bon vivant and the lungs of a smoker, had been hospitalized just two days before the ceremony with appendicitis. The surgery saved his life, but the ceremony had to be postponed—and with it, the plans of those who had hoped it would all end before it began. Now, six weeks later, London prepared once more—with greater pomp, but also greater tension.

Act Four: The Coronation in Peril

Chapter Fifteen: The Maid in the Shadow of the Crown

Westminster Abbey, August 8, 1902 – Morning

The fog over the Thames had not yet lifted when Irene Adler, dressed in the plain attire of a royal maid, slipped unnoticed among the servants. Her hair was tucked beneath a white cap, her hands steadying a tray of incense candles—the perfect disguise of invisible anonymity.

The Coronation Procession

The abbey smelled of beeswax and fresh flowers, but tension hung thick in the air. Guards in red uniforms stood in unnaturally rigid rows, their eyes darting toward the main gate, where guests had already begun to stream in.

"Where are those candles going?"  snapped an older maid, her face flushed with haste.

"To the sacristy, madam,"  Irene replied meekly, bowing her head. Yet she did not waste a single motion—her sharp eyes caught a figure in a dark cloak slipping along the colonnade.

Ashbury.

A Secret Meeting

The disgraced lord now moved like a ghost—with false whiskers and papers identifying him as "Dr. Mercer."  At the foot of Edward the Confessor’s statue, he handed a small casket to a guardsman with unpolished epaulettes. The man tucked it beneath his cloak with such a nervous jerk that his hands trembled.

"At the third bell,"  Ashbury whispered. "When fire consumes the lies, the crown will belong to those who deserve it."

The guardsman nodded and hurried away. But Irene had already glimpsed the metallic glint in his pocket—a triangular ring engraved with three crowns. The same as Devereaux’s.

Irene Adler’s Notebook

"Ashbury lives. And his allies are closer than I expected—right within the royal guard."

"The third bell… no coincidence. The same signal used in the attempt on Queen Victoria."

"What’s in that casket? Explosives? Or something worse?"

As she turned to disappear into the crowd, her gaze locked with a tall man in a gray coat. He stood in the shadow of a statue, smoking a cigar. Mycroft Holmes.  His eyes told her everything she needed to know:

Time is running out.

Chapter Sixteen: Smoke Over Westminster

Westminster Abbey, August 8, 1902 – 11:47 AM

The abbey bells had just tolled for the third time when the floor trembled. A dull roar, muffled by thick stone walls, rippled through the air like distant thunder. Smoke billowed from the crypts, coiling between the pillars like a serpent.

Panic in the Nave

Courtiers in coronation robes froze. Several ladies shrieked as dust rained from the vaulted ceiling, as if St. Elizabeth herself had stirred from centuries of slumber.

"Order!"  bellowed the guard captain, but his voice was lost in the clamor as the crowd surged toward the exits. The rustle of silk and the clink of ceremonial chains mingled with the echo of frantic footsteps.

Lestrade, disguised as a German baron’s private secretary, tightened his grip on the revolver in his pocket—its cold steel sharpening his focus. His eyes scanned the chaos with a detective’s precision—and there, near the side chapel, was the guardsman he’d seen whispering with Ashbury two days prior. The man edged along the wall, the triangular ring glinting on his finger—a badge of loyalty to the secret faction within the coronation committee.

Lestrade moved silently after him, slipping through shadows and fleeing guests like a specter.

Traces in the Chaos

Irene seized the confusion to slip into the sacristy. The air here was thick with incense and fear. Ancient arches cast jagged shadows where a figure—or a murderer’s intent—could easily hide.

Amid scattered vestments, between a censer and a bundle of gold-embroidered stoles, lay an open breviary—old, its corners worn by centuries of priestly hands. And beneath it—precisely where an untrained eye would not look—peeked the edge of a map.

It was a fragment of Vernier’s blueprint: the tunnels beneath the abbey. A red line marked a route straight to the coronation chair—through crypt passages known only to the oldest keepers. At the margin, a partly erased but still-legible note:

"The exchange occurs at the third bell. The key lies with the one who wears three crowns."

She held her breath. Three crowns… Ashbury? Or someone higher still?

Then came the click of a hammer behind her. Unmistakable. The dry sound that separates life from death.

Revelation in the Sacristy

"So it is you,"  Ashbury whispered. He stood in the doorway, a pistol in hand, shadows masking half his face like a tragic Greek mask. His voice was soft, but his eyes were death itself.

"Madame Véronique… or should I say Miss Adler?"

Silence fell—heavy as an organ chord that would never sound.

"You’re twelve years too late with that address, Lord Ashbury,"  Irene replied coolly, straightening slowly, her hand resting atop the map. "And even then, you didn’t earn it."

Their gazes locked—hers with the icy elegance of a woman who had survived more than one court intrigue, his with the arrogance of a man who believed he held the last card. But Irene knew this game had one ace left.

Irene Adler’s Notebook

"The explosion was no accident—it was a signal. The third bell set in motion a plan twelve years in the making."

"Ashbury was right about one thing: the crown was never the prize. It’s about who holds it when the world shakes."

"Why the sacristy? What was he searching for?"

Behind Ashbury, a shadow shifted. The man in the gray coat. And his triple-crown ring gleamed like a warning.

Chapter Seventeen: A Message Written in Blood

London Docks, August 8, 1902 – Dusk

At the wharves near the Tower, the anchors of steamships groaned, and the shouts of sailors blended with the cries of gulls wheeling in the evening gloom like restless souls lost in the Thames mist. The sharp tang of salt rose from fish crates, and heavy boots slipped on the wet cobblestones of dockworkers.

Irene Adler stood in the archway of The Mermaid’s Wrath , a soot-stained tavern whose sign might have dated back to the Stuarts. Her fingers absently turned a delicate bracelet—identical to the one Violet Carlisle had worn when it all began, then a girl, now a name in faded police records.

A Cipher in Metal

She glanced over her shoulder, ensuring she was unobserved, then opened the bracelet’s hidden locket and slipped in a tightly rolled slip of paper. The ink was fresh, the script hurried but precise—the hand of someone who knew time was short.

"Ashbury at the Old Gate, 10 PM. Bring proof of Swiss accounts. Lestrade must act out of uniform."

At the foot of the stone steps loitered a messenger with a red scarf and a face blackened by soot. Irene paid him two extra sovereigns—a steep bribe for silence and speed.

"For Miss Hardwick of the Pall Mall Gazette. Her hands only. No one else."  Her voice was soft, but the edge in it cut like steel.

Ambush on the Thames

Eleanor received the bracelet at the printworks, where steam hissed from hot rollers and lead type lay scattered like fallen soldiers. She fastened it to her wrist, but before she could decipher the note, a scuff of leather on stone sounded behind her.

Two figures in rain-slicked coats lunged from the alley. The man with a scar bisecting his left eye—deep, as if carved by a bayonet—snatched the notebook from her grip before she could scream.

"Not for journalists’ eyes, Miss,"  he hissed, voice thick with tobacco and contempt. Then, with a killer’s cold efficiency, he flung the book into the furnace beside the press. The flames roared as they devoured the pages of Rothschild account numbers—evidence vanishing like illusions, leaving only ash and bitterness.

But Eleanor was no shrinking violet. She kicked her attacker’s knee with such force he swore in French. Then she fled into the fog rolling off the Thames, her coat torn by a blade—a strip of fabric caught on a nail. But she was alive. And she knew someone feared what she knew.

Irene Adler’s Notebook

"Eleanor is brave, but I’ve put her in danger. I must finish what Dunning started."

*"The Swiss accounts are gone. But Lestrade remembers enough—XCIII-666, the number of hell."*

"Why burn that notebook? What made those numbers so damning?"

At pier No. 7, where she arrived an hour later, she found spilled gin and traces of blood. And in a puddle, the moon’s reflection—a mirror in which flickered the shadow of the man in the gray coat. This time, he wasn’t following her.

He was following Lestrade.

Chapter Eighteen: The Final Role of Madame Véronique

Tower of London, August 8, 1902 – Midnight

The stone corridors of the Tower echoed with the footsteps of the royal guard. Oil lamps cast trembling shadows on the walls, as if the ghosts of long-executed prisoners were pointing to the guilty. The cold air smelled of iron, mildew, and suppressed history.

Inspector Lestrade pressed Ashbury’s arm against the icy masonry of the White Tower. Between them stood an ancient door to the treasury—once protecting crowns, now protecting lies.

"Lord Ashbury,"  he said quietly, though the steel in his voice cut through the night like a knife through silk, "I arrest you for the embezzlement of the Crown Jewels and the murder of Guard Peterson."

Ashbury merely smirked. His triple-crown ring caught the moonlight filtering through the narrow arrow slits above them. His eyes were empty, cold—he knew he had higher protection than the law in this game.

"On what evidence, Inspector?"  he hissed. "Vernier is dead. Baldwin too. And your witness—"

Then the door behind them creaked open. A harsh knock against stone, then a heavy footstep.

A Royal Command

A uniformed aide entered, holding a sealed document with the royal insignia. His white-gloved hand was steady.

"By order of His Majesty,"  he read, "Lord Ashbury is to be released into house arrest immediately. The Coronation Committee has ruled this matter must not interfere with tomorrow’s ceremony."

A drop of wax fell from the seal onto the stone floor. Ashbury smiled. Lestrade’s fists clenched around empty air. He said nothing—he knew Warren was behind this. And he knew that, for tonight, the battle was lost.

The guards stepped aside. Ashbury adjusted his cuffs, nodded once—and walked away. Not as a criminal, but as a guest in a building that had once imprisoned kings.

Irene’s Last Trick

Meanwhile, high above the sleeping city at the Hotel Cecil, Irene laid an open suitcase on the bed. Outside, the quiet clatter of night horses on the embankment mingled with the fog rising from the Thames, brushing against the windows.

Inside the case lay a ticket to Paris, a vial of Hungarian rosewater, and a letter beginning "Dearest sister..." —all carefully arranged as a false trail for those who might seek to trace the disappearance of Madame Véronique.

On the small table, a candle burned in its holder, its flickering light dancing across the pages of her notebook.

Irene ran her fingers over the leather binding one last time, feeling every crease, every etched note, as if touching her own past. Then she set it down on the nightstand, open to the final page.

In the margin, written in a fine hand:

"When truth hides behind a mask, one must play the role—until the final curtain falls."

Beyond the window, high above the Thames, the bell of St. Michael’s Tower struck midnight. A wind rose in the distance, and with it, the closing chapter of a story.

Epilogue: The Silence of the Crown

London, August 9, 1902 – Coronation Day

Sunlight glinted off golden banners above Westminster as Sir Charles Warren announced to the press:

"A lone anarchist with a personal vendetta has been apprehended."  No name. No connection to the Tower.

In a dark cell at Scotland Yard, Lord Ashbury sat with his head in his hands. His triple-crown ring was gone—replaced by manacles.

Silent Returns

In the Jewel House, two Beefeaters replaced the last counterfeit sapphires in St. Edward’s Crown with the real ones. The window frame seemed to frame a statue—Colonel Devereaux stared out, unseen, his face that of a man who had long ceased to register what he saw.

Departure

At the port of Dover, Irene Adler stood on the deck of the La Reine Margot . This time, undisguised, with only a small suitcase and a white scarf around her neck. In the distance, coronation bells rang.

On the dock, in the shadow of a warehouse, stood Mycroft Holmes. In his hand, he held Irene’s notebook.

His gaze was heavy as lead. He knew. He knew everything—about Vernier, the Swiss accounts, the shadow of Prince Albert Victor. And he let her go.

He lit a cigar. The match’s flame briefly illuminated the final lines:

"The crown survives. The Stuarts lose. And I? I am but a shadow to be lost in the fog."

On the back, in his neat script, he had added:

"Resurgam."

Table of Contents

Irene Adler - The Crown of Lies

Irene Adler – The Crown of Lies

Prologue: Echoes of Westminster

Chapter One: The Mists Over London

Chapter Two: A Letter from a Friend

Act One: The Shadow of the Stuarts

Chapter Three: The Lady in White Gloves

Act Two: Playing with Fire

Chapter Six: The House with Seven Keys

Chapter Seven: The Journalist with a Sharp Pen

Chapter Eight: Lord Ashbury and the Shadow of the Stuarts

Chapter Nine: Blood Money

Chapter Ten: A Trap for the Keeper of Truth

Act Three: Bloody Revelation

Chapter Eleven: Betrayal in the Archives Westminster Abbey, March 14, 1902 – 3:17 AM

Chapter Twelve: Lestrade’s Revenge

Chapter Thirteen: The Prince's Illness

Chapter Fourteen: The Hour of Truth

Act Four: The Coronation in Peril

Chapter Fifteen: The Maid in the Shadow of the Crown Westminster Abbey, August 8, 1902 – Morning

Chapter Sixteen: Smoke Over Westminster

Chapter Seventeen: A Message Written in Blood

Chapter Eighteen: The Final Role of Madame Véronique

Epilogue: The Silence of the Crown