by Ian Wright
Holmes turned to Dr. Death and said, “Thank you doctor. You’ve been far more helpful than you might imagine. If you find anything further, please contact me.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Holmes. Good day, gentlemen.”
Holmes and Watson turned to leave, and, as they did so, Watson’s cane hooked itself onto one of the shrouds covering another body. The shroud was pulled off to reveal a corpse that had suffered severe putrefaction. The look of pure horror upon Watson’s face caused both Holmes and Death to smile at each other.
“I’m so sorry, Doctor!” blurted out Watson.
“That’s quite alright, Dr Watson. No damage has been done, and I don’t think the victim has any modesty left in her,” answered the doctor, still smiling.
“Why is this young woman so decomposed?” asked Holmes.
“It is suspected that she was a prostitute, murdered in Soho. Nobody found her body until almost two weeks after she died,” explained the doctor.
Watson, feeling somewhat embarrassed by his reaction to seeing the body, attempted to change the subject by asking, “What made you go into this particular line of medicine, Doctor?”
“Well, with a name like mine, I would never inspire a great deal of confidence in living patients,” smiled Death.
Holmes and Watson left the morgue and returned to Baker Street. Upon their arrival, Holmes went to his desk and wrote a cheque instructing his bank to pay five pounds to the Salvation Army to help the poorer inhabitants of the city.
Watson stood, looking out of the window and suddenly announced, “Holmes, it looks as if Lestrade is going to pay us a visit.”
“Yes, I rather thought he might.”
“What makes you say that, old fellow?”
“I believe he is coming to tell us that the murder weapon has been found.”
“Holmes! That’s incredible! You can’t possibly know that – it’s impossible! In fact, I’ll wager five shillings that you’re wrong!”
Holmes looked up at Watson and flashed a quick smile. “I suggest you refrain from gambling your money, Watson. Why not give it to a charity instead?”
“Very well, if you are right about what Lestrade will tell us, I will give one crown to the Salvation Army!”
“Very well,” laughed Holmes, finding humour in Watson’s compulsion to gamble, even when the benefactor was a charity.
There was a loud knock on the door. “Come in, it’s not locked,” called out Watson. The door swung open and Mrs. Hudson entered announcing Inspector Lestrade.
Holmes stood from the desk at which he had been sitting. “Come in, Lestrade,” he said, as he walked across the room and shook the inspector’s hand. He then went on, “Mrs. Hudson, would you be so kind as to make us a pot of tea?”
Mrs. Hudson nodded approvingly and left to make the tea. Holmes turned back to Lestrade and said, “Take your coat off and have a seat, Lestrade.”
Lestrade sat on the sofa, whilst Holmes returned to the desk seat he had been occupying a few moments earlier, and turned it to face Lestrade. Watson sat in his favourite chair, keen to find out the purpose of Lestrade’s visit.
The inspector gave a sigh of relief as he sat, since this was the first time he had done so all day, and it was now approaching 2:20pm, according to the clock on the mantle piece. Lestrade noticed that there was a peaceful atmosphere to the room; a halcyon tranquillity that he found most welcoming. He looked around and noted that it hadn’t changed much since his last visit. Books were still scattered everywhere. Despite that, the overall appearance of the room was tidy – probably due to Mrs. Hudson’s constant attempts to tidy up after Holmes.
“What can the good doctor and I do for you, Lestrade?” asked Holmes.
“Well, Holmes…”
There was a rap on the door, so Watson went and opened it. Mrs. Hudson was standing outside with a tray. She smiled at the doctor, as he thanked her for the tea and took the tray she was carrying. She closed the door as Watson set the tray down on the table, poured three cups of tea and handed them out.
“Please, go on Lestrade. You were about to tell us something,” said Watson, returning to his chair.
“We believe we’ve found the murder weapon!” There was a triumphant tone evident in the inspector’s voice.
“Really!” exclaimed Holmes, smiling mockingly at Watson, who sat looking both confused and amazed that Holmes had known this was going to happen.
Watson turned to the inspector and asked, “Where was it, Lestrade?”
“We found it in Hyde Park, in some bushes about 50 yards from where the body was discovered.”
“Is the weapon a meat cleaver, as suspected?” added Watson
“Yes, it’s a meat cleaver alright. It looks to be new, or very nearly new.”
A sudden idea came to Watson, prompting him to ask another question, “Are you able to say where this meat cleaver was purchased?”
“Yes, it was sold by a shop called Smiths, located in Coventry Street. It’s still got the price label on it. We’ve asked the staff at Smiths if anyone could remember who it was sold to. Nobody was sure, but one of them, remembered a man with dark hair, who was tall and of medium build, that purchased a cleaver last week. There was something about this man that seemed a bit sinister, apparently. Oh, and he had a Cockney accent. I don’t think this information will be of much use to us as…”
“May we see it now, Lestrade?” interjected Holmes.
“How do you know I have it here?”
“The way in which you have been fiddling with that box suggests you are keen to display its contents to us.”
Lestrade opened the box to reveal the blood-stained instrument.
“May I?” asked Holmes, indicating that he wished to handle the weapon.
“By all means, Holmes,” replied the inspector.
Holmes took the weapon and looked at the blood, now dried, on the blade. Two very faint lines of dried blood were visible, confirming that two cuts had occurred, each having travelled further into the neck. The edge of the blade was blunted and deformed, possibly where it had struck the spine several times. There was also blood on the handle, which could have belonged to the murderer, as it was close to a splinter in the wood.
“I find it odd that the price label was left on the weapon,” remarked Holmes, thoughtfully, as he continued to examine the meat cleaver. “Our murderer may have a cut and, possibly, a splinter in the palm of his right hand,” stated Holmes, still looking closely at the weapon.
“How do you know that?” questioned Lestrade.
“If you look here, Inspector, you will see blood around this splinter. Furthermore, a fragment of the splinter is missing.”
“I see,” acknowledged Lestrade, whilst examining the handle. After they had finished examining the meat cleaver, Holmes told Lestrade everything he knew of the case. Although Lestrade tried to reciprocate, Holmes and Watson learned very little from the inspector. One thing he did add, was that the wife of Sir Charles Grey had confirmed the belongings found on the body were those of her husband. She had also confirmed that a birth mark found on the body matched her husband’s.
After the inspector had left, Watson asked, “Who do you think is behind all this, Holmes?”
“It is impossible to say at present, old fellow, but I am sure that I have been manipulated into becoming involved. Somebody wants me to investigate, perhaps a villain reaping his, or her, revenge. In any case, we are currently left with little choice but to find out more about the murderer. So, let us go to Smiths and see if we are able to secure a more accurate description of the person that they thought sinister.”
As the two men left the apartment, Watson asked, “You indicated that the murderer might be a woman or a man, Holmes. I thought we had already established that it must be a man due to the strength needed to carry out the attack. Why have you not ruled a woman out?”
“It was most likely a man that actually committed the murder, due to the strength required to produce s
uch deep cuts with the meat cleaver. However, we do not yet know who is orchestrating everything we have seen thus far. For all we know, somebody else could be behind all of this, Watson. The actual murderer may be nothing more than a henchman.”
Upon arrival at Smiths, Holmes and Watson found the man behind the counter reluctant to speak about the mysterious man who had purchased a meat cleaver the previous week. A shilling soon loosened his tongue, however. He told them the man was not local – at least not known by anyone in the shop. He was clean-shaven, tidily dressed, although not very smartly, and his cockney accent had sounded false.
The two men returned to Baker Street. Watson, looking very perplexed, suddenly turned to Holmes and said, “I cannot wait any longer Holmes! How did you know that Lestrade had come to inform us that the murder weapon had been found?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” smiled Holmes, “I saw something in the bushes in Hyde Park yesterday that I reported to a nearby officer. The police recovered it and found it to be the murder weapon. I arranged with Lestrade to bring it here today so that I could examine it. I realise that I omitted to reveal these details to you, but I thought it would be more fun this way.”
“Well confound it, Holmes!” shouted Watson, his face looking red and angry. “How could you let me bet on something that you already knew the outcome of? It’s just not on, old chap!”
Holmes laughed and replied, “Come now, Watson. I did not take your bet but, instead, suggested you make a donation to charity.”
Chapter 3
The fog slowly swirled around the streets of London.
A note was delivered…
v
A clock struck eleven times, its sound muffled in the fog, as a subdued figure stepped out of a carriage. The figure walked along Haymarket, turned into a side turning and disappeared into the night.
v
She smiled, as she bid her colleagues goodnight and walked towards the exit. She liked working at The Theatre Royal, Haymarket and, although she only played a minor role, she knew that, one day, she would be a star. At twenty-one years of age, her youthful enthusiasm and pretty appearance stood her in good stead to realise that ambition.
The light above the exit illuminated her attractive face. Her skin was silky smooth and her eyes were deep blue and bright. She had full lips, a small nose and long blonde hair. She attracted many suitors, due to her natural beauty. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and swung freely as she hurriedly walked away from the theatre. The sound of her footsteps cut through the fog and, from a distance, was the only evidence of her presence.
She looked behind her to confirm a suspicion that, in this haze, she would no longer be able to see the theatre; normally perfectly clear from this distance. All she could now discern of the theatre were diffused lights.
She passed under a streetlight, its glow illuminating the mist surrounding it. A shadow crossed her face as she passed under the light. She noticed that everything seemed so quiet within veil of fog surrounding her – as though nothing existed beyond the fifty, or so, yards that she could see.
The fog enhanced a feeling of mystery within her, an atmospheric dreamland in her heightened imagination. In this fantasy a great adventure, fraught with danger and excitement was about to take place, in which she played the principal role. She imagined herself in peril and being rescued by a handsome hero. A passing carriage, pulled by two horses, brought her abruptly back to reality; thus shattering the romantic mystery.
She continued along her usual route to Charing Cross Road by turning right into Orange Street, which served as a shortcut. This narrow street was cobbled with a small pavement on each side. The cobbles were uneven, an interminable mass of raised stones interspersed with mud filled pot holes. A row of buildings ran down both sides of the road, their rooftops barely visible in the freezing foggy air.
She turned left into Whitcomb Street, which disappeared into a misty oblivion, prompting a memory deep in the girl’s subconscious to be recalled. It was so long ago, when she was just a young girl, but old enough to understand the horror before her eyes. Perhaps the atmosphere created by the fog was similar to that from the night of this memory. She shuddered at the recollection of the unclear images of her nightmares. ‘Why should I remember now the evil I’ve fought so hard to forget?’ she thought to herself. She shuddered as she recalled strange, distorted memories from the night she witnessed a man kill another.
She knew the killer to be dead, having been hanged for the murder she had witnessed. It was her evidence that condemned him to his fate, so she knew he was dead. Even so, she suddenly felt uneasy about what may lurk ahead in the eerie gloom. Her trepidation caused her to momentarily slow down. She inwardly laughed her unfounded fear away and continued her journey, albeit with a little more stealth in her step.
v
The flare of a match, as it lit a cigarette, briefly illuminated a man’s pitted face, revealing a small scar on the right cheek. He rubbed his hands together in a futile attempt to defeat the cold night air. The man waited in a side street between Haymarket and Shaftesbury Avenue, drawing hard on his cigarette to calm his nerves.
In the distance he heard something… He strained his ears. Someone was approaching. He took the cigarette from his mouth, dropped it on the pavement and stepped on it. He held his breath in order to listen more closely. Someone was approaching. He found a house with no lights showing from within and crept into the small front garden. He squatted down behind the garden’s wall and hid…
v
Holmes searched through file after file, read newspaper articles and accounts of old cases painstakingly written by Watson, several of which were somewhat embellished. His search became increasingly more frantic as his frustration grew.
“What does it mean?” he growled to himself. ‘The answer must lie somewhere within these files,’ he thought. He continued searching, scattering papers all over the room, becoming more agitated as he did so. Something within him knew that he held the answer he was so desperate to find, but he just could not find it. He searched through everything, but to no avail. He threw the last file across the room in anger. His gaze fell upon a small bottle and a syringe on the desk…
v
The girl continued along Whitcomb Street and then turned right into Lisle Street, which was silent and deserted. The only evidence of any people were the faint lights emanating from the windows of houses running along each side of the road. The gas streetlights lit areas along the street, whilst leaving other areas in impenetrable darkness. She walked into a dark shadow and then into the pale light offered by a streetlight.
She heard a sound come from a side street, as she passed by. She turned to face the direction of the sound, but could see only fog hanging densely in the night air. ‘Must have been a cat, or something,’ she reassuringly thought to herself; but the sound had unnerved her. Her heart beat faster than usual for a short while as she continued walking, nervously listening for any sounds coming from behind. Everything was silent, except for the distant sounds from the busier streets, so she breathed a sigh of relief.
The silence was suddenly broken and her heart began to pound in her chest once more, as a fresh feeling of fear gripped her. There were footsteps behind her where, moments before, there had been silence. She tried to calm herself by thinking, ‘It doesn’t matter that someone is walking behind. It’s probably somebody that has come out of a house’. The pace of the footsteps quickened and she began to panic, finding it hard to breathe continuously. The footsteps drew nearer and nearer until they sounded as though they were only a few yards behind her.
Her pace quickened in an attempt to evade whoever was following her. The footsteps behind did not increase in speed and, to her relief, she gained some distance between herself and those menacing footsteps. The street seemed much longer than usual to her. Why was there nobody else about? She thought of knocking on the front door of one of the houses to seek refuge, but dismissed the idea as foolish.
The footsteps seemed further back now. Her heart began to beat a little more easily and her breathing had returned to normal. She wondered why she had been so frightened, as she wasn’t, by nature, easily scared. Perhaps it was the atmosphere created by the fog that reminded her of that terrible night, so many years ago.
Ahead, she could begin to make out the hazy lights in Charing Cross Road. There would be more people there, so she would be safe. Those lights looked so welcoming and she felt a great deal of relief as she approached them. But then the footsteps behind started to get closer again...
The pursuer rapidly gained on her. The thought occurred to the girl that it could be someone who had just realised they were late for an appointment. Perhaps the person would speedily pass her in a few moments.
She wanted to turn and confront her pursuer, but was too frightened and could not will herself to look behind. Something seemed wrong about the sound of these footsteps. The street became a sinister place, beckoning all of her deepest fears; just like that dreadful night so long ago. Her mouth was dry and she found it hard to swallow as, still, the footsteps drew nearer. She began to feel sick and felt her back and neck tingle as she sensed someone very close behind. Her heart was pounding heavily once again. She walked as quickly as she was able, perhaps trying to escape the feeling of impending danger, as well as whoever was so close behind.
Each step thundered in her ears. She wanted to run, but reasoned that the person would soon pass her by. She felt the person’s presence only a few feet away from her. Her body was shaking violently, as every nerve sensed something evil behind her. Her breathing was fast and shivering, along with the rest of her body. No matter how much she tried to reason with herself, she could not overcome the feeling that she was in real danger. She knew something was very wrong.
A few steps later, she felt the front of a shoe catch her heel. Panic overwhelmed her frightened soul, and she was about to scream and run when she heard a brief rustle of clothing followed by a deafening crash upon the top of her head, accompanied by an excruciating pain. Her head was forced violently down into her neck and she heard an ear-splitting whistle.