Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 15

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  Holmes looked down at the stack of folders at his feet. “I have these police reports to go through, and then I’ll have some tea and lunch and perhaps take a nap before supper.”

  “Oh,” I replied, looked twice at him, and then left. On the street I hailed a hansom cab.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  “The Charity Hospital in Whitechapel, my good man. And hurry, please.”

  The driver doffed his cap. “Right you are, sir. I’ll have you there in good time.”

  It was a bleak, cold grey afternoon. I shivered and drew my coat tightly around me. As we drove through the streets of the West End a sudden change came over the cityscape; the carefully maintained and elegant offices, residences, church edifices, and swept streets gave way to desolate fallow fields, and huddled-close-together filthy tenement buildings—many with broken windows which were covered by burlap sacks, or whatever the occupants could find to keep the cold air, wind, and rain out. The cab drove through steam rising out of open gutters and by the workhouses where so many who have no trade, profession, or social standing must nonetheless provide lodging and food for themselves and their children. Their only other choice is to beg on the streets for their daily bread and live in some alley.

  Her Majesty is a kind, compassionate monarch. Surely she is told that such squalid conditions exist. And if not, I thought as the cab bucked and swayed over the neglected pavement—why not? The cab halted abruptly in front of the hospital.

  “Whitechapel Charity Hospital,” the driver announced, opening the door for me.

  I stepped down and placed the fare in his dirty hand, which remained open.

  He cleared his throat. “Didn’t I say I’d get ya here in good time?”

  My watch was in my waistcoat pocket, and I wasn’t about to expose myself to the wintry conditions—besides, I didn’t time the trip in any event. “So you did,” I replied and swiftly went up the stairs to the entrance. As I reached the doors, I heard him mumble.

  “Bloody doctors, they’re all alike.”

  I turned and cast a disapprovingly raised eyebrow at him, but he was already driving away. Bloody hansom drivers, I thought watching him. You put yourself in their hands, and they shake you as if you’re a salt shaker, and then they have the audacity to expect you to tip them! “Hmmmp!” I said, irritated, and entered the hospital. It was organized by a consortium of physicians who donated their time and gifts to heal those who could not pay.

  I talked to several colleagues and gleaned very little, other than quotes such as “bloody business,” and “the man should be locked away in Bedlam,” but as to treating the Ripper’s victims or any of their friends—nothing. Naturally they treated prostitutes, but did not engage such persons in idle conversation. An altogether proper attitude to be sure, but not much help in a murder investigation.

  As I made my way toward the exit, the door opened and in walked Inspectors Abberline and Lestrade, no doubt pursuing the same line of reasoning. Fortunately, I recognized them before they recognized me, and swiftly turned my back to them to consult the clock. I did not know Inspector Frederick Abberline beyond what was reported in the press and that he was in charge of the Ripper investigation. If recognized by Lestrade, I would have been hard pressed to explain my presence, since he knows that my practice is private.

  Without looking back, I made my way out and hailed the first hansom that came by. I returned to our lodgings just before three, and found Holmes seated, fingers steepled, eyes closed, and the stack of police reports on the floor to the right of his chair. I hung up my hat, scarf, and coat and sat in the chair facing him. I knew that my friend was deep in thought, that amazing mind sifting through every detail that was found in those reports. As I settled in, his eyes opened.

  “Ah, Watson. What did you learn?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid.”

  He nodded. “Just as I suspected. I on the other hand have learned a very great deal.”

  I let his sarcastic aside pass. “Do tell.”

  “The police have eight suspects who couldn’t be more disparate; everyone from John Netley, a carriage driver, and Aaron Kosminsky, a Polish Jew—to the likes of Doctor Sir William Gull, the Queen’s physician, and His Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor Christian Edward, or ‘Eddy’ as Her Majesty’s grandson is known.”

  “Really?” I exclaimed. “Good God!”

  “That’s not all,” Holmes said. “The list is rounded off by an American actor, Richard Mansfield, a clairvoyant named Robert James Lees, Doctor Montague John Druitt, Doctor Gull’s son-in-law, and finally Michael Ostrong, a Russian doctor and convict.”

  “Which of them is the Ripper?”

  “None.”

  “None?”

  “That’s right, old friend. The police have pursued nearly every conceivable theory no matter how remote, or in some cases, utterly ludicrous it may be. As a result, the Ripper is still free.”

  I thought about this for a moment. “What are we to do?”

  “Precisely what we are doing, Watson. We must make haste, though; I do not believe we have much time before the Ripper disappears forever.”

  There was a knock at the door. I rose from my chair. Holmes did as well, evidence that he did not know who it was. I opened the door, and to my horror in walked Inspector Lestrade, who nodded at Holmes.

  “Ah, Lestrade,” Holmes said, “What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade replied, and I felt a chill at the back of my neck. “Actually, I’m here to ask Doctor Watson some questions.”

  “Watson?” Holmes asked.

  “Yes,” Lestrade said, “I saw him at the Charity Hospital this afternoon. Inspector Abberline and I went there to question the doctors and their patients in connection with this bloody business.”

  “Indeed?” Holmes asked.

  “Yes, Doctor Watson turned his back to us as we walked in, apparently to look at the time, but obviously in an effort to evade us. Now then, Doctor, I did not mention that I knew you to Inspector Abberline, but since I know that your practice is strictly private I was wondering why were you there?”

  I was keenly aware that both men were looking at me intently. “Well, I…”

  Lestrade waved his hand. “No need, Doctor, it is obvious why you were there.” He turned his policeman’s gaze on Holmes. “I believe that you were told you were not needed on this case.”

  Unperturbed, Holmes replied. “Someone wants my services, Lestrade.”

  “Who?” Lestrade asked, through squinted eyes.

  “Sorry, I am not at liberty to say.” Holmes replied, discreetly positioning himself to block the stack of reports from Lestrade’s view.

  “I see,” Lestrade said, turned and made his way to the door. “Well, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Goodbye, Inspector,” Holmes called after him.

  Lestrade nodded to us both and left.

  “He gave up rather easily, didn’t he?” I asked.

  Holmes shook his head. “Lestrade’s enough of an investigator to know that I’ve been retained by someone in authority, and that he should not press the issue.”

  “I see,” I said, although I really didn’t.

  We spent the remainder of the afternoon, including supper in the privacy of our own thoughts. Afterward, Holmes announced that he was going to Mycroft’s club, and not to expect him home until morning. For the next seven weeks, every evening Holmes would persevere in his vigil among the denizens of Whitechapel, interacting with them in a variety of disguises: from a dock worker to a common labourer, from a slaughterhouse butcher to a pimp. Although they accepted him as one of their own, he was no closer to solving the Ripper murders. The fact that no murders occurred in that time was little consolation to my friend, who, exhausted and demoralized, wanted to bring this killer to justice to the point of obsession that rivaled his pursuit of Moriarty.

  9 November, 1888

  Disguised as a workhouse labourer, Holmes left our lod
gings for Whitechapel, just as he had all the evenings previously. He took up position in an alley near Dorset Street in Miller’s Court, a grimy cul-de-sac containing small threadbare apartments. At approximately two a.m. he observed a man and woman entering the cul-de-sac as had others earlier; however, there was something inexplicably odd about the man who, unlike the others, was well dressed in black evening clothes with a top hat, and he carried a walking stick with a large heavy handle that looked like silver.

  Although his face was in shadow, Holmes sensed a disfigurement of the features that caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. At three a.m. Holmes heard a woman’s cry, but he had heard many cries, along with shouting, and babies wailing throughout the night. At four-fifteen a.m. he heard a door open close by, and footsteps as the well-dressed man emerged.

  Holmes watched him as he walked to the corner and stopped.

  The man turned suddenly to face in Holmes’s direction, as if aware that he was being watched. Even though his face was still hidden by shadow, Holmes knew that the man was looking directly at him. The hair on the back of Holmes’s neck stood up again when the strange man pointed his stick at him.

  The woman! Holmes impulsively ran into the cul-de-sac, his eyes sweeping the windows of each apartment. They were all dark, except one which was lit by the glow from what Holmes surmised to be a fireplace. He rushed to it and peered inside. What he saw looked like the anteroom to Hell. Lit by the flickering yellow light from the fireplace was the horribly butchered body of a woman, mutilated nearly beyond recognition. Sickened and horrified, Holmes desperately wanted to look away, and although this took but a few seconds it seemed to Holmes an eternity.

  Finally he turned away, making note of the address—26 Dorset—and saw the strange man still standing at the corner. The two stared at each other, then the man tipped his hat, and in a flash of his cloak turned and disappeared into the fog.

  “Stop!” Holmes shouted, and bolted after him.

  The man Holmes now knew to be the Ripper was swift and agile, but his gait seemed simian in nature, as if he were not a man but some great ape. They rounded a corner approaching the affluent West End when the Ripper collided with a patrolman sending both hard to the pavement. The Ripper growled, and as he rolled to get up Holmes was on top of him, locking one arm behind his back.

  “There’s no escape,” Holmes said.

  The Ripper turned to him and Holmes’s face went white as he beheld the distorted countenance. The eyes were wild and red-rimmed, yet there was considerable intelligence behind them. The Ripper smiled—a smile that was pure evil. “Ah, but there is,” he said, and despite the hold on him threw Holmes off with astonishing ease and was running once again.

  The patrolman was regaining consciousness as Holmes got to his feet and disappeared into the mist. Holmes caught sight of the Ripper just as he turned onto a side street, and followed him. Holmes watched in fascination as the small man leapt over a low brick wall and down into a stairwell, and was down the stairs just as the door slammed in front of him. Holmes went around the block to the front entrance and after a moment to compose himself, he knocked at the door again and again until it opened revealing a haggard looking butler.

  “I’m Sherlock Holmes, is your master at home?”

  “Do you know what time it is, sir? Of course he is!”

  “Wake him please, I just witnessed a man breaking in the rear entrance, and believe you are all in danger.”

  The poor man sighed, his shoulders sank.

  “May I come in?”

  “Oh, forgive me, sir, of course.” The butler led Holmes in and shut the door.

  “We must wake your master and call the police.”

  “One moment, sir,” the butler replied and rushed up the stairs. He returned a few moments later. “He’s not here, Mr Holmes, but he’s been keeping very odd hours of late.”

  “Show me to that back room. If your master’s there, he is in grave danger.”

  They arrived at the door only to find it locked. From within they were startled to hear what sounded like animal noises and glass breaking. The frail-looking butler threw himself against the door.

  “I’ll take care of this,” Holmes said. “Call the police.”

  “Yes, sir,” the butler replied, and walked away rubbing his shoulder.

  Holmes was about to break the door down when the noises from inside abruptly stopped, then the doorknob turned and the door swung open revealing a disheveled-looking man wearing a white coat much like the kind doctors wear.

  “Who are you?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  “Sherlock Holmes. Are you all right?”

  The man ran fingers through his hair. “Yes, yes I think so.”

  “Where is the other man?”

  “Gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yes, when he heard you at the door he simply left.”

  Holmes regarded the pale man closely; both he and the room appeared to have been through a struggle that left a lot of glass broken and furniture turned over, and there was something very disturbing about his eyes—something familiar.

  By this time, the butler returned with a patrolman.

  “Oh, Doctor, I am ever so glad to see you! Are you all right?” the butler said.

  “Yes, Poole, I was working late.”

  “What’s going on here?” the patrolman asked.

  “There’s been a break-in, officer,” the butler said. “Mr Holmes here witnessed the crime.”

  “Mr Holmes, eh?” the officer asked, squinting.

  “Yes, I’m Sherlock Holmes, but I wasn’t pursuing a burglar, I was pursuing the Ripper.”

  “The Ripper?” the patrolman asked. “Are you certain, Mr Holmes?”

  “I am.”

  “Where is he, then?” the patrolman asked, looking around the damaged room.

  “He escaped,” the doctor replied.

  “Which way did he go?” the patrolman inquired.

  “Out the back door,” the doctor replied.

  “Well then, we’re wasting valuable time,” the patrolman said, starting for the door.

  “Hold on a moment,” Holmes said, intently searching the doctor’s eyes.

  “Why?” the patrolman asked.

  “I don’t know how you did this, Doctor, but we both know where the Ripper went,” Holmes said, and by the doctor’s expression he knew he was right.

  “What are you talking about, Mr Holmes?” the patrolman asked. “I know this man—he’s Doctor Henry Jekyll.”

  “Indeed he is,” the butler added.

  “That may well be, gentlemen, but this is our man. They say the eyes are the mirror of the soul, Doctor Jekyll. I never subscribed to that notion until tonight. Also you’re still wearing the same boots and trousers as the murderer; obviously you did not have time to change them.”

  Jekyll looked squarely at Holmes. “Poole, get Mr Holmes a brandy. He obviously is not feeling well.”

  “No, thank you,” Holmes said. “Officer, I know how this appears, but this man is the Ripper.”

  “I’ve read some of your exploits in the Strand, Mr Holmes, and admired your use of deductive logic and reasoning—but this. Evidently your chronicler has exaggerated somewhat,” Jekyll said.

  “Come along now, Mr Holmes,” the patrolman said.

  “Tell them, Jekyll. For the sake of your soul tell them what you’ve done.”

  “I’ve done nothing,” Jekyll said. “I’m Doctor Henry Jekyll—I am Doctor Henry Jekyll.”

  While he was speaking, what best could be described as a shadow crossed Jekyll’s face, and his brow thickened. Another shadow swept across leaving in its wake more grotesque changes, as the eyebrows became so prodigious that they met over the nose which broadened, the nostrils flaring. A final shadow darkened Jekyll’s distorted countenance, and when it passed they were astonished to behold a completely different man—with a widow’s peak, a brow that hung over wild, red-rimmed eyes, and teeth which had
been enlarged and stretched the lips and mouth into a cruel perpetual grin.

  “Jekyll,” Holmes whispered.

  “Jekyll’s dead—I’m Hyde.” This statement, more than the metamorphosis, chilled all who heard it to the core. With a growl Hyde lunged at Holmes, his oversized hands closed quickly around my friend’s throat. A shot rang out. Then another, and another, and Hyde slumped to the floor where he breathed his last in two sharp gasps.

  Holmes gasped, pocketing his revolver.

  Poole crossed himself, and Holmes regarded Hyde, whose contorted features remained—a testament to the evil life to which Jekyll had succumbed.

  221 B Baker Street, London. Epilogue:

  A complete report of these events was made to Mycroft, which were then burned along with all of Jekyll’s notes that detailed his vile experiments.

  The body of Hyde was cremated, the ashes carried by the four winds into oblivion. It was decided at the highest levels that the identity of “Jack the Ripper” would never be known. If the truth of Jekyll’s experiments into the darkness of Man were ever revealed—what would become of us?

  “As if we could rid ourselves of Hyde that easily,” Holmes observed.

  CARTOON, by John Betancourt and Andrew Genn

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE OLD RUSSIAN WOMAN, by Jack Grochot

  Pitch dark settled in by the time Sherlock Holmes and I finished a fine fish dinner at Simpson’s, our favourite restaurant, and we walked at a leisurely pace from the Strand to our Baker Street apartment, talking about the recent successful conclusion of an investigation into a domestic complication involving Mrs Cecil Forrester, the erstwhile client. “If I had my way, Watson,” Holmes remarked, “her husband would have been dragged before his fellow members of Parliament and forced to admit his role in the corruption scandal. But, instead, she chose to sweep his participation under the rug and protect his seat, a source of income from which she too has reaped benefits. I was tempted to tip off one of my connections in the press, rather than keep mum and let the matter wither on the vine.”

  “But if you had dropped a hint to the newspapers, that would have violated your pledge of confidentiality,” I proposed.