‘A scientist doesn’t believe in theories, Watson. One examines them for inconsistencies with evidence, then adopts them as a working premise until a more accurate one appears. Evolution as a theory maps to the facts far better than any other. And so I embrace it.’
‘The scientific method. Of course. But what is Social Darwinism?’
‘Something entirely different, Watson. Survival of the fittest, for them, is justification for rampant bullying. There have always been autocrats, dictators, and despots. They believe they deserve whatever they can take from others. The weak do not deserve to live.’
‘Listen to this,’ I said, reading from the pamphlet: ‘“If a man smite you on one cheek, smash him down; smite him hip and thigh, for self-preservation is the highest law. Give blow for blow, scorn for scorn, doom for doom, with compound interest liberally added thereunto. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, aye four-fold, a hundred-fold.” Why, this is life in a wolf-pack!’
‘And hardly logical, when you consider it fully. I am sure there are Social Darwinists who wear spectacles.’
I laughed.
‘I jest, but it is troubling, Watson. There is a rising wave of this thinking in our country. Mycroft brought it to my attention. Billings is just one example, as is the unknown person who stands behind him. If this philosophy were to take hold among the police, it would be exceedingly dangerous.’
‘I cannot imagine there are so many sadists in the population,’ I remarked.
‘Sadism is not a requirement. Lack of empathy and a desire for power is all. And above all, fear. Just run-of-the-mill human weaknesses, in an unfortunate, but all too common combination.’
‘I don’t see how fear connects.’
‘To a person who feels threatened, the illusion of immense personal power has great appeal. When fear is coupled with jealousy and helplessness, as it often is, the foundation is laid.’
‘One must feel quite downtrodden, then. But who is so hopeless?’
‘Watson, help me on with my clothing as we talk, would you please? We must get underway. There is much to do on our case today. Find me a frock coat, please.’
I went to his armoire and looked for his usual city attire.
‘For us, Social Darwinism is despicable, ridiculous. But Watson, you must remember that we are men of privilege, with the benefit of a good education and the ability to earn our keep in comfortable circumstances and relative safety.’
‘Except that you risk your life daily,’ said I. ‘There are any number of criminals in London and elsewhere who would gladly see you dead.’ I espied several black frock coats and selected one.
‘That is not the point.’
‘And I risked my life at war, Holmes.’
‘I do not forget this. But we both do this by choice, Watson, and arguably for a higher purpose. Consider the extreme poor in London. Many are sleeping on the streets, many are weak and unprepared, unable to defend themselves or their possessions, or those they love. Imagine yourself in such circumstance.’
‘Here, try this one.’ I held up one of his frock coats.
‘Imagine that you and Mary were crowded into meagre public lodgings, or even on the street, with leering and violent men and women surrounding you, jealous over any happiness or possessions you display. Angry over anything you have that they do not. You are perhaps injured or weakened from starvation or illness. The few possessions you manage to obtain are stolen from you regularly.’
I shuddered. This described thousands in London, including the poor wretches I’d seen yesterday. ‘But even so, Holmes, I would still not wish to beat others into submission. Only to find a way to earn my keep and remove my wife and myself to more protected ground.’
‘Would you not feel fear?’
‘Yes, of course. But still I would never—’
‘Yes, but that is you, Watson. You are made of solid stuff, my friend, and discount your own valour. The lesser man might justifiably feel a combination of fear, despair and resentment. Ah, this cursed wrist!’
The brace would not fit inside the narrow sleeve. I would need to find another coat. I helped disentangle him from this one.
‘Hatred could build in him to where a philosophy such as this seems reasonable,’ Holmes continued. ‘Where civilization fails, this “might makes right” mentality prevails.’
I returned to the armoire. ‘Holmes, we here in England are civilized people!’
‘Watson, my good fellow, civilization is a thin veneer. Thinner than one would like. The British are no more immune than anyone. Surely you witnessed barbarism during your army days? I mean, outside any official battle.’
I paused. I had indeed witnessed cruelty, callous behaviour in the face of a wounded enemy, looting, and worse. Many things which I would consider shameful.
‘I see that you have. And from officers? English “gentlemen”, correct?’
‘Some,’ I conceded. ‘But these were moments of extreme duress.’ I rifled through his armoire. All the black frock coats seemed to be identical. Did none of them have more generous sleeves?
‘But you took no such advantage of your wounded enemies. No stealing from dead comrades,’ said Holmes.
‘Good God, no!’
‘Of course, you did not. But you saw it. And more of it that you would admit.’
‘But this Redbeard suggests more than taking advantage of the weak! If I were to follow his ideas, I should beat a man to a pulp for buying the last good lamb chop at the butcher’s before me!’
‘Never mind, Watson, we must focus on our case. I have been reading the police files.’ He picked them up and thrust them at me, one after another. ‘A Devil Tarot card was found in Anson’s deathbed. But no Tarot card in the reports from Benjamin. And none here, for Clammory.’
I waved them away. ‘I shall read those later. Let us find you a coat.’ I took two more out and held them up. ‘These all look the same.’
‘None at Danforth’s murder,’ Holmes continued, his eyes burning with excitement. ‘Then the one we discovered at Enrietti’s. Yet … I sense this killer would like to be found.’
‘Well, that Lucifer letter to the Goodwins seems to confirm your theory.’
‘Ah, thank you, Mrs Hudson.’ Our landlady had appeared, as if by magic, handing me another cup of coffee. She placed a second cup for Holmes next to his bed, eyed the frock coats, encircled his bandaged wrist with a gentle hand, and immediately intuited the problem. She took the two coats I held and hung them back up.
‘The letter adds weight but is not confirmatory, Watson. Another coat, hurry.’
‘Let me finish my coffee, Holmes. About that letter, is it not odd that the Goodwins waited and only presented it to you now? They seem suspect to me. Could it be that they themselves have written the letter?’
‘I do not think so, Watson. It is more likely that they will be targets, and soon.’ He looked at our landlady, now standing behind me. ‘Oh no, Mrs Hudson, just no!’
She was holding up a tweedy sack coat she had plucked from the armoire. It was looser in cut, but typically country wear. Mrs. Hudson shrugged, laid it on the end of the bed, and left us.
‘Not that coat, never in the city!’ He turned back to me. ‘I digress. The Goodwins are unusual, to be sure. First, the Lucifer handwriting is like neither of theirs. Nor is the language. Neither observation is conclusive but consider this: the Goodwin brothers live privileged lives, enjoying both the ripe fruits of high society and also the deep satisfaction of influence in Parliament. And they are philanthropists of the first order. They are handsome, popular men about town, and— I said no!’
I held up his tweedy sack coat. ‘Holmes, this the only coat you have that will fit over that wrist! Put it on.’
With a glare, he complied. ‘I have not entirely dismissed the Goodwins. But as I was saying, they enjoy great personal freedom and a sybaritic existence. This does not fit the picture.’
We had moved from Holmes’s bedroom into the cluttered sittin
g-room where Holmes began searching for something. ‘My gloves. Black, fingerless. Help me find them, please. The killer, I believe, is a frustrated, angry and vengeful person, and even more to the point, highly organized. Possibly with a need for order. That was true of both alphabet murderers I mentioned earlier.’
I smiled as we rooted through the considerable clutter with which Holmes surrounded himself.
‘The Goodwins’ house is perfectly neat,’ I offered.
‘They have servants!’ said Holmes in irritation. ‘And entertain frequently. Of course it is!’
‘What about Titus Billings?’ I asked. ‘Is it possible he is responsible for this crime wave?’
Holmes had located his fingerless black knitted gloves and was now pulling them on.
He sighed. ‘Unclear. He is no mastermind. The nature of these murders – and the surrounding tragedies – shows elaborate planning and delicate execution. Does that seem like Billings to you?’
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Here, let me help.’ I put on the right-hand glove for him.
‘Titus Billings is after something else. His raison d’être is power. Absolute personal power. So no, Watson, I think it is more likely that Billings and our case are simply parallel developments. But Billings is a liability, to be sure. His need for dominance has set him against this investigation, a position he will never relinquish voluntarily. I underestimated this investment when I confronted him at Scotland Yard.’
‘It would seem so, Holmes.’
‘Yes, and I have paid for it.’ He looked down at his gloved hands. The injury was now largely concealed. ‘But why has Mycroft not delivered news on who supports Billings? I sent word to him last night enquiring as to his progress.’
‘I might have something for you there,’ said I. ‘When I was at the Goodwins’, I overheard Billings trying to intimidate them by implying a connection to someone highly placed. A cousin, I believe, to the Queen.’
‘What? Why did you not mention this?’
‘I could not catch the name, it was whispered, deferentially—’
‘Well, what good is that, Watson, without the name? The Queen has many cousins.’
‘Andrew Goodwin replied that the man was their cousin as well! That stopped Billings in his tracks.’
‘Interesting. I wonder who it is. Watson, bring me my “G” file. Let me see what I have on the Goodwins. Meanwhile, look them up in Debrett’s.’
In a moment, he was poring over one of his indexed notebooks in which he kept track of people of interest while I paged through Debrett’s. Our searches both revealed that the Goodwins were, in fact, related somewhat circuitously to the Royal Family. Second cousins to a foreign, highly placed Royal, who shall remain unnamed in this narrative.
‘Well, this adds to their allure, surely?’ I remarked, embarrassed at my own desire to be invited to a party on Grosvenor Square.
‘It may also make them even more envied. They could very well be the “G” on the killers’s list of targets, although I do not think envy is sufficient motive for this string of murders. No, there is something deeply personal at the root of these killings. If all the victims had harmed others, we must find out who and how. Something in these facts will relate to our killer. We do not yet know what Danforth the elder had lurking in his past.’
‘But Danforth was killed by his oldest son, Charles. Charles is in gaol. He could not have killed Enrietti.’
‘He is not the man we seek. That is an unfinished avenue of this investigation. Our master villain set off Charles Danforth in some way. In fact, a visit to him in gaol is on my list for today. Come, our coats, Watson! We must be off.’
‘We are not taking a single step in the direction of Scotland Yard, Holmes!’
‘Your concern is admirable but irrelevant. Danforth has been removed to Pentonville where he awaits trial. It should not be a problem to slip in. I am friendly with someone there.’
‘I don’t like it, Holmes.’
‘Nevertheless, we must go.’
We stood in the hallway donning our ulsters, hats and scarves. As he struggled with his ulster, Holmes gave a quick glance of disapproval in the mirror at his country attire. I found it amusing that one who cared so little for public opinion nevertheless took such pains with his clothing.
He called for Billy, who appeared instantly.
‘Billy, hail us a cab, then take this note to my friend Mr Clifford Smith-Naimark at The Times’ archives. Tell him it is urgent and collect what he has for you by four p.m. today. And deliver these two other notes as well. Wait for a response.’
Billy nodded and dashed off.
Mrs Hudson approached with our umbrellas and two pocket lanterns. ‘You’ll be wanting these, gentlemen. It’s a pea-souper this morning. And wetter than a duck in a downpour.’ She gently patted Holmes’s injured arm. ‘You take care, Mr Holmes.’ He smiled at her, then turned and took my arm with his good one.
‘Come, Watson! Let us be off! The game awaits!’
PART FIVE
BACKWATER
‘There is some soul of goodness in things evil,
Would men observingly distil it out.’
—William Shakespeare, Henry V
CHAPTER 21
Cat and Mouse
Mrs Hudson had not exaggerated. An unseasonably dense, greenish-yellow fog had followed last night’s storm, converting an ice-frosted London into an opaque mystery. No four-wheeler was available, so we bundled into a hansom, its lack of enclosed cabin making for a very chilly ride through the murk. To my surprise, Holmes directed the driver first to an address in Kensington.
‘Watson we shall detour from this case briefly to inform Lady Eleanor Gainsborough of the facts surrounding her prize pupil. I cannot imagine it will please her, but I feel I at least owe her the report. And then … onto our main task!’
We were forced to inch along as the driver could see no more than a few yards before him. Holmes was taut with impatience, drumming the fingers of his right hand on his knee.
‘I am surprised you took on Lady Eleanor, Holmes, given how busy you are just now.’
‘Perhaps a mistake, Watson. But I have committed and must follow through.’
‘I wonder why did she not call the police about the attack on the girl?’ I said.
‘Perhaps in some way she suspected a ruse and did not wish to risk scandal.’ He paused, and smiled at me. ‘Or perhaps she has heard of Titus Billings and thought better of it.’
‘Odious man! But I sense she has a particular admiration for you, Holmes.’
He shrugged. ‘The public response to me has been polarized of late, Watson.’
‘Hers was particularly ardent,’ I persisted.
He waved the thought away. Our cab continued at a snail’s pace. Few were on the road, as driving about in this deep fog was dangerous. The gaslights along the streets remained lit even in daylight, pale orbs glowing in the fog like out-of-focus moons, helping us keep to our route.
I put this minor peril out of my mind and turned my attention to the case, which seemed as impenetrable as the mist through which we were travelling.
‘Holmes,’ I ventured, ‘I still cannot understand why the murderer would send such a letter to the Goodwins.’
‘There is something of the showman in our killer, Watson. He is proud of his work and wants attention, admiration. People who kill in series like this usually accelerate their game, shortening the time between murders, making each more gruesome, or in other ways creating a growing sense of horror. For them, it is a kind of theatre. They have been known to send notes to the police.’
‘Like the Ripper!’ I exclaimed. ‘Then why not this time?’
‘Perhaps he has. Perhaps Titus Billings has ignored it and will not say. Or it could be that this highly intelligent killer believes an idiot is currently in charge of the police force. Billings has, after all, appeared to fumble this investigation. Perhaps the killer miscalculated by sending his letter to the Goodwins, who d
id not announce it to the press, but rather kept the threats private.’
‘I see,’ I said.
‘Our killer has an agenda and is playing a long game. I have theories. But what worries me, Watson, is that the killer may attract a macabre following. When murderers receive a lot of press attention, imitators may get ideas. All the more reason to close this case quickly.’
Soon we arrived at an elegant home at Courtfield Gardens. It was a graceful four-storey building in the middle of the block, with columns on the front portico, impressive but not ostentatious. A Gothic style church across the street barely visible through the mist impressed me as a sinister apparition from a dark fairy tale. I shook my head at the fanciful thought. I had not had enough sleep.
We were admitted by a maid and left to wait in an enormous first floor reception-room, which, unlike the building’s exterior was nothing short of astonishing. It was like standing inside a life-sized ‘cabinet of curiosities’, so popular in years gone past. The walls were papered in a riot of greens and hung with paintings of wild animals and the stuffed heads of an actual lion, ibex, black jaguar, and one beast I couldn’t identify – perhaps an anteater.
A marble fireplace was flanked by two tall ivory tusks, intricately carved with animals spiralling up the long shapes. Aside each were tall glass cases in which were housed dozens of delicate hand-blown glass orchids, each with a beautifully handwritten label. On tables under the animal heads was a magnificent collection of shells – twisting, delicate, iridescent – and by the window, a gilt-edged set of large, illustrated books, one open to a painting of an orchid.
There were no chairs, only a large flat item that looked like a mattress, surrounded on three sides by carved wooden-backed bolsters upholstered in a silk paisley of bright reds and pinks, shot through with golden threads.
I recognized it as a majlis, a type of Eastern divan on which one lounged rather than sat. What Englishman would fling himself down on such a thing in company with those he had just met? It might be better suited to the lounge of a Turkish bath, not a sitting-room in Kensington.
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