Smith cleared his throat. “I think we have the idea, Doctor, thank you. Tell me, have you reached any conclusions regarding the size and shape of the knife?”
“Only that it was sharp and pointed and at least six inches long.”
“Would you say that the person wielding the knife exhibited any medical skills?”
“Not particularly. Only with respect to the positioning of the organs and the way of removing them: obviously, he knows a little something regarding human anatomy. The way in which the kidney was cut out showed that it was done by an individual who knew what he was about, but there is no indication of any special surgical skills. Very much to the contrary.”
Holmes looked up sharply. He had heard only the first part of the reply. “Organs were removed?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. Did I not mention that?” His outward manner was irritatingly casual. “The left kidney, the uterus, portions of both the large and small intestines. But the removal of the intestines must have been obvious to you, mustn’t it? They were drawn out to a large extent, pulled out forcibly, and placed over the right shoulder. A section was quite detached and then placed between the left arm and the body.”
“Placed?” asked Smith. “You mean put there by design?”
“It would seem so, yes.”
“The other organs: The kidney and the uterus?” asked Holmes. “What of them?”
“Oh, they’re gone.”
“Gone? You mean, missing?”
“Quite.”
There was silence in the room for a long moment.
Smith slowly shook his head in disbelief. Finally he asked: “Is there anything else you can tell us that might be useful, Doctor?”
“No, I don’t believe so,” he replied dryly. “Of course, you noted that the lobe of her right ear was cut obliquely through — why, I cannot imagine. That’s the lot of it.”
Smith turned to the other surgeon, who had remained silent throughout the interview, his eyes cast downward. “Is there anything you would like to add, Dr. Sequeira?”
The man raised his head and looked at him. He was very pale, obviously shaken. There was a momentary flash of anger in his eyes. “One thing only,” he said, clenching his jaw. “When you finally apprehend this creature, I would very much like to be there for the hanging.”
Without a further word he rushed from the room.
Dr. Brown stood there for a moment, staring at the floor. Then he returned to the sink and washed his hands again.
It was almost six o’clock when Holmes and Smith left the mortuary and returned by carriage to Mitre Square. A weak sun had risen, casting a thin, joyless half-light over the square. It was a gray and depressing scene. Policemen stood about singly and in small groups, some conversing quietly but most maintaining a weary silence, their faces lined with fatigue. Detective Halse was waiting for them as they drove up. He greeted them nervously, obviously agitated about something.
“What now?” inquired Smith.
The policeman hesitated in his reply, as if having difficulty in finding the words. He looked aged, his eyes in the growing light were watery and rimmed with red. Holmes noticed that his hands were shaking. “The message on the wall, sir — in Goulston Street?”
“Yes, yes. What about it?”
Halse took a deep breath. “It’s been erased, sir.”
Smith looked at him in disbelief. For a moment he could not speak.
“Erased?”
Halse avoided his gaze. He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “Sir, I did what I could, and Superintendent Arnold of the Metropolitan force was there and he argued against it also, but Sir Charles insisted, and there was nothing any of us could do.”
“Sir Charles?” interjected Holmes sharply.
“Yes, sir. Sir Charles Warren. He ordered that it be rubbed out.”
“Before the photographs were taken?” demanded Smith.
“Yes, sir. He said he was afraid the reference to Jews might inflame the populace — those were his words, sir — ‘inflame the populace,’ and lead to further anti-Jewish riots. We did our best to convince him to wait, or to just erase the one offending word, but he wouldn’t hear of it, sir. He just wouldn’t.”
Smith stared at him for a moment and then his shoulders slumped. “Oh, my dear sweet Jesus,” he said.
Sherlock Holmes merely gazed up at the sky. “How very extraordinary,” he said dispassionately.
* * *
It was well past the breakfast hour when Holmes finally made his way back to Baker Street. The search of the area surrounding the murder scene had been fruitless. The examination of the body at the mortuary revealed nothing of any great consequence. The case was really no further along than it had been two murders ago. Holmes was bone tired and dispirited, and if it were not for the fact that Mrs. Hudson hovered over him, fussing and scolding like a nanny, he never would have partaken of even what little he did of the meal she had so thoughtfully provided, late in the morning as it was. It was almost noon when he finally fell into bed, his body aching, his emotions drained, and he slept the day away, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted, a deep, dreamless sleep that only a few hours earlier he had forsworn — a sleep which in the words of the poet was a divine oblivion of his sufferings.
Thirteen
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2, 1888
“Now we have the Sherlock Holmes test, and there will no longer be any difficulty.”
— A Study in Scarlet
The fingerprint under Holmes’s magnifying glass was large and well defined, the loops and whorls sharply distinct from one another with very little of the smudging one would expect to find in a print accidentally applied in the normal course of events. No, this one was purposely imprinted upon the small rectangular piece of pasteboard being scrutinized by Holmes, an ordinary postcard received at the Central News Agency only the day before and promptly turned over to Scotland Yard. It was apparent that the fingerprint was that of a thumb — a left thumb, Holmes decided. It was imprinted in red. The message above it was brief and was also in red, but of a different hue than that of the fingerprint:
I was not codding, dear old Boss, when I gave you the tip. You’ll hear about Saucy Jacky’s work tomorrow. Double event this time. Number one squealed a bit. Couldn’t finish straight off. Had no time to get ears for police. Thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.
Jack the Ripper
The postmark bore the legend “London E. 1 Oct 88,” the date indicating it was mailed on either Sunday the thirtieth or early Monday the first.
Holmes focused the lens on the thumbprint once again, peering intently at the magnified image for several minutes, his gray eyes taking on a fierce, almost hypnotic cast, so intense was his concentration.
“You are familiar with Bertillon’s method, Inspector?” asked Holmes idly, his nose just inches away from the pasteboard he was studying.
Abberline, who was standing at Holmes’s shoulder, stroked his chin. “Well, yes, of course, but much of it is untried, isn’t it? Though I hear the Sureté has recently adopted his system, I really don’t know how much credence to place upon it.”
“I quite agree with you, though I tend to believe he is definitely on to something. His work in anthropometry shows great promise, I think. Of course, much more remains to be done before I shall be willing to fully accept all of his dictums. The idea that individuals can be identified by measuring the human body in terms of skeletal dimensions, proportions, and ratios raises tantalizing possibilities. Criminal identification would be greatly assisted if his theories prove to be valid.”
Holmes lapsed into silence again as he concentrated on the swirling pattern of the print beneath his lens. After a moment or two, without looking up, he resumed the colloquy:
“It is with Monsieur Bertillon’s theory regarding finger- and palmprints that I have the greatest problem. I find the notion that no one individual’s digital imprintations are the same as those of any other somewhat fanc
iful.
It defies logic, does it not, that the pattern on the surface of any given finger or palm must differ markedly from that of every other? That each and every fingerprint is distinctive, none exactly the same?” Holmes shook his head. “The concept is staggering. Tally the countless multitudes which have trod these boards since time out of mind, multiply by ten, and you have the infinite variety of patterns required to make each human digit unique. I cannot help but dwell upon the absurdity of such a premise. Are each of us so exceptional that Nature has gone to such infinite lengths to set us apart? Is our Creator that punctilious, that painstaking in his craft?”
Abberline shrugged. “A question better directed to a theologian than a policeman, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes flashed a quick smile. “Or Mr. Darwin,” he said.
He studied the fingerprint for several minutes more. “But how does one prove it?” he said after another lengthy silence. “How does one establish verification without scrutinizing the hands and fingers of every human being on the face of the Earth, living and dead and as yet unborn? Or at least a sizable sample?”
Abberline laughed. “Clearly an impossible task,” he agreed. “Yet, they say that no one snowflake is exactly the same as any other either.”
Holmes looked up in some surprise. “Do they? Do they indeed? I had not heard that.” He thought about it for a moment and then returned to the deliberation of the object beneath his magnifying glass. “And now that I have, I shall do my best to forget it. Cluttering the mind with useless bits of information, no matter how astonishing or quaint, can serve no useful purpose.”
Abberline looked down at him, bemused. What an amazingly contradictory character was Mr. Sherlock Holmes. For a man with such a restless, inquiring mind, his range of interests was so surprisingly narrow: He was such a font of knowledge in some areas, and so incredibly ignorant in others. Abberline could not believe he had not known of the distinctive character of snowflakes, a simple fact to be found in the mind of the most simpleminded of schoolboys. He would have been no more surprised had Holmes expressed ignorance of the Earth being round, or of the fact that it traveled around the sun.
Abberline turned the discussion back to the subject at hand. “Yet, the Bertillonists claim that no duplication of a fingerprint has ever been found.”
“Yes,” said Holmes distractedly, “that is what they claim, and I have no reason to disbelieve them, but still, the idea that the human hand, or any part of it, cannot be replicated in nature is so profoundly implausible that I must insist upon further proof. I find it illogical to assume that because no replications have been encountered in the past, they cannot or will not be encountered in the future. Still, one must not close one’s mind to new ideas, no matter how improbable, must one?” Holmes grunted, put down his magnifying glass, and massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger.58
“As far as this postcard is concerned, it is genuine, in my opinion,” he said. “There can be no doubt: The handwriting is the same as in that of the earlier communication that I examined.” Holmes could not resist adding: “Of course, thanks to your intrepid chief, we shall never know if it is also the same as that of the writing on the wall in Goulston Street, though I believe it is.”
“I tend to think so too,” Abberline replied, “though I make no claims to being an expert in handwriting analysis. But handwriting aside, it must be genuine, mustn’t it? The postcard was mailed before any of the newspaper accounts reached the streets, so obviously the author of this has to be the killer. Otherwise he wouldn’t have known about the two most recent murders when he posted this card, let alone any of the details surrounding them — unless he were a journalist himself, as some of our people seem to think.”
“Oh, I considered that possibility,” replied Holmes dryly, “and I don’t doubt that one or two of our more ambitious, less reputable scribblers would not hesitate to stoop to such depths if they thought it would gain them readership, but I think it rather unlikely in this case. You yourself told me that certain details were withheld from the press, so I believe we can rule out the possibility of an unscrupulous journalist — unless you have a spy in your midst, or one of your own people is being bribed for information, that is.”
Abberline stiffened. “I can assure you, Mr. Holmes, that none of my lads would permit themselves to be compromised, nor would any of them ever consider —”
Holmes held up his hand and said quickly, “I don’t doubt it, dear fellow. Not for one moment. While I don’t give your detective division high marks for imagination or method, I have never found reason to question the integrity of its individual members. In any event, the press in general have shown remarkable restraint in not publishing either one of these communications as of yet, and I should think that if some journalist had fabricated this as a means of embellishing his own reports, he would have been most eager to get it into print. Besides, no journalist could have known about the attempt to cut off one of the ears of the first victim, could he?”
“No, that’s unlikely. We revealed that to no one. And no journalist was permitted close enough to view the remains.”
“I thought not. And they have not had access to the mortuary, I presume.”
“No. My men have seen to that. It’s been ordered sealed off until after the inquest.”
Holmes nodded his approval. “As I am certain Major Smith has done in the City. But getting back to this (he flourished the postcard), the handwriting is that of a very disturbed, even violent individual, the product of a mind fully capable of murder, if I am any judge. All of the signs are there, unmistakably. And whilst I have among my acquaintances one or two journalists who are quite capable of character assassination, I do not seriously think it likely any would indulge in the actual kind.” His mouth lifted in another one of his quick, quirky smiles and just as quickly resumed its customary contours. “No, I do believe this Saucy Jack is the fellow he says he is. My pound to your penny, he’s our man.”59
Abberline pulled at his chin. “Well, if you are right, that is at least something concrete. There is so much theorizing going on, so much irresponsible speculation, even on the part of respected scientists and medical experts, that it is difficult to know what to believe. Why, just yesterday I read somewhere that someone who claims to be an authority on the workings and dysfunctions of the human mind has theorized that the fellow is perhaps a religious fanatic, mentally crippled by his fanaticism, who has forsaken normal relations with women — spurning their favors, and taking up celibacy and that sort of thing — and in an excess of piety and fervor has assumed the role of some sort of avenging angel whose mission is to rid the world of all of those he considers to be wanton and libidinous and so forth.”
Holmes responded abstractedly. “Hmm. If so, I should say he has bitten off far more than he can possibly eschew.”
“What?” Abberline cast him an odd look. “Oh, yes, quite.”
Holmes took up the postcard again and puzzled over it. He rose to his feet abruptly, a gleam in his eye. “Indulge me,” he said.
Going directly to the cluttered deal table in the corner, he began busying himself with test tubes and chemicals. Abberline, filled with curiosity, followed behind. He stood looking over Holmes’s shoulder as the latter carefully measured out a small quantity of a colorless liquid into one of the test tubes. “Merely distilled water,” Holmes murmured in way of explanation.
Abberline stood there, mystified.
“A little test of my own devising,” Holmes explained further. “It is very simple, actually. Elegantly simple, if I may say so, and quite infallible. The old guaiacum test was very clumsy and uncertain, you see. And so is the microscopic examination of corpuscles, which is useless if the sample is more than a few hours old.”
“Mr. Holmes,” said Abberline, wearing a most puzzled frown, “perhaps you would be good enough to tell me just what it is you are doing.”
“In a moment, dear chap, in just one moment.” He was bent ov
er the table almost double, the postcard once again mere inches from his nose. He had cleared space for it on the table with a sweep of his hand. Now, with a penknife, he began scraping gently at the corner of the fingerprint on the card. “You did say this was submitted to the photographic process, did you not?”
“Yes, we had it exposed to three separate photographic plates and have excellent copies,” replied Abberline, “but I don’t see what...”
“Good, good. I should not like to think that I was defacing the original without there being suitable facsimiles, though I shan’t require more than the smallest of samples. You see how I leave the major part of the fingerprint unscathed?”
“Yes, but I still don’t see —”
“Oh, but you shall, dear fellow. And you shall see with the naked eye, I promise you. Teichman’s test as well as Bryk’s both required the use of a microscope and, as I mentioned, were very limited in what they could accomplish, but the beauty of this experiment is that no microscope is required and the desired result is much quicker to attain. Most important, the specimen need not be a fresh one. Even samples that are weeks and months old may thus be submitted to examination with gratifyingly predictable results. And for all I know, years old as well, though lamentably, I have had no occasion to put it to the test.”
Abberline’s impatience was growing. “Mr. Holmes, could you not tell me what it is you are doing?”
“Directly, Inspector, directly. Pass me that bottle, won’t you? No, no, the other one — the sodium tungstate. Ah, thank you, there’s a good fellow.” He removed a small quantity of white crystals from the bottle with the blade of his penknife and tapped them into the test tube.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Page 17