The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors

by Edward B. Hanna

  Churchill grunted, and to Watson’s surprise patted him on the arm. “You remind me of the chap who felt guilty toward his mistress because he made love to his wife. One can’t help but wonder if his feelings, while admirable, were not a trifle misplaced.”

  Churchill pulled on his gloves and paused at the door, turning one last time to Holmes. “Is there nothing, then, that I may take back to Balmoral to share with the Queen? As you might imagine, she is most disturbed by these murders and has taken a keen personal interest in the investigations. She has been hounding Lord Salisbury and poor Matthews on practically a daily basis. Is there nothing of a positive nature that I may take to her?”74

  Holmes thought for a moment. “You may tell her that my inquiries are continuing, that I am presently employed in following leads which I believe to be of a promising nature, and that I expect to be able to report further progress very shortly. You may tell her I am... hopeful.”

  Churchill looked at him. “Hopeful?” He sniffed. “May I tell her nothing more than that? Just hopeful?”

  Holmes again reflected for a moment, then smiled enigmatically. “You may tell her that I am very hopeful.”

  Churchill gave him a long, cold look — one that would cause most men to quail — and then departed without another word.

  Watson closed the door softly behind him. He did not speak until the sound of Churchill’s footsteps had receded down the stairs and Watson was certain he was well out of hearing. “He is quite ill, you know,” he said, turning to Holmes. “He may even be fatally ill.”

  Holmes did not seem surprised. “And have you diagnosed the nature of his illness, Doctor?”

  “Impossible to say without an examination. It could be any one of a number of things.”

  “Would it surprise you to learn that he has syphilis?”

  Watson shook his head. “It would not shock me. Your brother hinted at it when we first met with him at the Diogenes in September, didn’t he? And there are many of the obvious signs. No, I would not be surprised at all. Indeed, I suspected it, of course, but one doesn’t like to make a diagnosis without having all the facts.”

  Holmes nodded. “The nature of his illness is known to very few, for the obvious reasons, of course. From what I gather, it was detected by specialists some time ago. Apparently he contracted the disease while still in his youth, but it remained dormant for many years and it is only recently that it has become evident. That is quite common with this particular disease, is it not?”

  “Quite common indeed. This is not my field, but as you might expect, I was called upon to treat several cases when I was with the army, so I know a little about it. Generally, if allowed to run its course, there are four stages to syphilis, and unless the disease is caught very early in the first stage, it invariably runs its course.”

  “So I understand. Tell me, what are the effects of the disease in its final stage?”

  “Quite horrible, really. Paresis, to begin with: A partial form of paralysis. The brain and spinal cord begin to decay, leading to general bodily dysfunctions manifested in such outward signs as facial tremors, slurred speech, impaired vision, general malaise, moodiness, depression, headaches, and the like. Sometimes even violent rages.” Watson shook his head. “It is not at all pleasant. Of course, I have no way of knowing how far along Lord Randolph’s case is, but from the outer signs, if what you tell me is correct, it is possible that it is well advanced. Of the four stages, I suspect that he has already reached at least the third, and maybe even the beginnings of the final stage. There is little that can be done for him at this point. The accepted course of treatment, frankly, is of limited value: doses of mercury, potassium iodide, digitalis — that’s the usual medication. Bed rest is normally prescribed, and the patient is cautioned to avoid spirits and tobacco which, as you have no doubt noted, our patient indulges in heavily. It is all quite useless, really. Quite useless. There will be spells of normalcy, leading one to believe that the disease is in remission, but in fact it is irremediable. There is no cure, and that is the sad fact of the matter. Once the disease has reached the quaternary stage, there is an inexorable invasion of the nervous system, and there you have it.”

  Holmes, who had been listening thoughtfully, nodded his head. “And ultimately?”

  “Ultimately there is a softening of the brain and insanity. If one is fortunate, death will come quickly.” He thought for a moment. “But it seldom does.”

  Holmes put a match to his pipe and within minutes was enshrouded in a thick noxious cloud of tobacco smoke, deep in his chair and deep in thought. Watson, recognizing the symptoms, left him alone to his deliberations, expecting the rest of the day to pass before Holmes bestirred himself once more.

  He was wrong. Hardly ten minutes had gone by before Holmes, knocking the ashes from his pipe, interrupted Watson’s thoughts.

  “You took note of it too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Lord Randolph’s bewilderment when I told him that no message accompanied that unspeakable thing on the table over there. He seemed for the moment to be not merely surprised, but... confused. He even questioned me about it, though of course he tried to affect an offhand manner.”

  “Well, I must say that I was confused also. Why did you want to deceive him on that point?”

  Holmes waved a hand airily. “Oh, a whim, nothing more.” He stared off into space.

  “I was also rather surprised,” Watson mused aloud, “at his lack of surprise when you showed him the kidney and told him what it was. You noted that too, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “His reaction was... well, I don’t know.”

  “Almost no reaction at all?”

  “Yes, exactly! It was almost as if he actually expected you to have it, as ridiculous as that sounds. Oh, he made a face and all, but it certainly was not what one might expect. I mean, with most laymen, when you show them a bit of this or that from a cadaver, they bolt for the loo. But not this chap, not him. An odd fish, what?”

  “Perhaps odder than we think,” Holmes replied, chin in hand. “Like the fish in the milk.”

  “Eh? Why do you say that?”

  Holmes waved off the question. “There are two other points that surely you did not fail to notice.”

  “Oh?” Watson thought for a moment. “I can’t say that I know what you’re referring to.”

  Holmes cast him a look. “I refer, of course, to Lord Randolph’s reference. The one he made to our dish of kidney over there. You will recall that he noted that it had arrived by post.”

  “So?”

  “How could he know that? I made no mention at all as to how it was delivered. The parcel could have just as easily come by messenger.”

  Watson raised an eyebrow. “That is odd, isn’t it?”

  “Most certainly odd. Moreover, on parting, he said something to the effect that we at least know that the killer is still in London. What did he base that knowledge on? He never saw the parcel’s outer wrappings, so he could not have known it was stamped with a London postmark. I certainly never gave any hint as to where it came from, or even indicated that I knew.”

  Watson’s face took on an expression of bewilderment. “That’s very true. You never did.”

  “But putting aside Lord Randolph for the moment, there is an even larger question,” said Holmes. “One that I find most intriguing of all.” He pointed with his chin in the general direction of the table where the kidney sat in its saucer. “Why did the killer send that to me?”

  Watson sniffed. “Why, to shock you, I suppose. Or to taunt you.”

  Holmes shook his head impatiently. “You miss my meaning. Why to me? Why was I chosen for the signal honor?”

  Watson looked at him blankly, forcing Holmes to explain.

  “How did the killer know that I am involved in the investigation at all? There cannot be more than eight or ten individuals who are privy to that knowledge.”

  “Good Lord!” Watson’
s expression turned to shock. “I don’t understand.”

  Holmes cupped his chin in hand. “Hmm. Nor do I.”

  Watson got up from his chair and went to the window, his brow furrowed with thought. He turned finally. “What can it mean, do you think?” he asked.

  Holmes did not respond right away, but continued looking off into space, chin still in hand. Finally he looked up with a humorless, tight-lipped smile and a strange, almost demonic glint in his eye. “I think that not only is there a fish in the milk, but it is laughing.”

  Nineteen

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 1888

  “‘It is both or none,’ said Holmes. ‘You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me.’”

  — A Scandal in Bohemia

  Mr. Mycroft Holmes, without conscious thought, tapped the ash from his cigar into the silver dish beside his right hand, not having to move his arm or even open his eyes to do so, the ashtray having been positioned that precisely by the club waiter, who now stood quiet vigil in the background, his choice of position being equally precise, just out of hearing but well within sight so as not to miss that slight crook of an upraised finger that meant his services were once again required. As the waiter had learned from long experience, position was everything.

  Obviously Mr. Holmes was not napping in his chair as any casual observer might assume; he was engaged in deep thought. Mr. Holmes always closed his eyes when he had a difficult matter to consider. It enabled him to better focus his powers of concentration, which were formidable under any circumstances.

  Across from him, Watson and Sherlock Holmes sat waiting patiently.

  The hushed precincts of the Diogenes Club seemed even quieter to Watson’s ear on this occasion, the sanctity of the place undisturbed by the slightest sound — not a footfall, the ticking of a clock, the whisper of a drapery, or (God forbid!) the murmur of a human voice. He found the atmosphere of the private room in which they were seated to be positively intimidating. As a result, he sat stiffly in his chair, hardly daring to breathe, feeling like nothing so much as a little boy in church, afraid that the smallest movement on his part or the merest sound would be an unpardonable transgression.

  The room, located on one of the upper floors of the Diogenes well away from those most heavily frequented by the club’s members, was only occasionally used, having ostensibly been set aside as a boardroom for the club’s officers. Since they rarely met, having few matters of business to attend to and little else they ever wished to discuss, it was reserved almost exclusively for the use of Mycroft Holmes on those occasions when he required a quiet, out-of-the-way place for an engagement of a confidential nature.

  As Watson had noted, it was a room hardly designed for comfort — mental or physical. Its furnishings and decor were foreign and of another era: Velvets, brocades, and heavy tapestries, an ornate ceiling and varied-colored marbles — different, by accident or design, from that of all the other rooms in the club, the sort of chamber one might expect to find in a Florentine palace, the sanctum sanctorum of some Medici prince or renaissance cardinal (a gray eminence without question).

  It was a setting in which it was possible to conduct oneself only with great dignity and to speak only in hushed tones (if at all), and then only of weighty matters, affairs of consequence, subjects of great seriousness, certainly nothing that smacked of frivolity or the mundane. And it was a room without question that required obeisance from the visitor toward the host.

  Several minutes had passed since Sherlock Holmes had completed his report, and now he sat silently opposite his brother, observing with wry amusement his every facial expression, his every twitch and fidget, as if by doing so he were able to read his every thought — a distinct possibility, thought Watson, who was quietly observing Holmes as Holmes was observing Mycroft.

  Mycroft looked up finally, his cold gray eyes meeting those of his brother’s. “This business concerning Lord Randolph, while most intriguing, is hardly pertinent. There is a reasonable explanation for all of it, I am sure, but I would not waste one iota of time in seeking it out were I you. It would serve only to distract from the matter at hand. Now, as to this bit of offal you received in the post — a kidney, I believe you said it was” — he allowed himself a look of mild distaste — “you are certain it is not from some prankster?”

  Holmes nodded. “Yes, Openshaw at London Hospital has virtually confirmed it. But Watson and I never had any real doubt about it being the genuine article. Everything about it points to its authenticity, and everything about the accompanying note, as well.”

  Mycroft chewed on his upper lip. “Quite a macabre sense of humor, this chap, what? But then, I would expect nothing less from him. Most of all, I am impressed by his resourcefulness. He would indeed seem to have a friend in high places who keeps him well informed, as you have suggested. And that in itself tells us something, doesn’t it?”

  “Well,” replied Holmes, “it confirms my belief that the ‘bloke’ is a ‘toff,’ as they say — if ever there was any doubt.” He flashed a quick smile.

  Mycroft sniffed, but nodded his agreement. “Beyond that, it tells us that he is probably not an absolute raving maniac, as some would have us believe. Not one who drools or goes without washing, in any event,” he added.

  “Precisely,” said Holmes.

  Watson’s brows knitted together. “How do you arrive at that?”

  Mycroft waved his hand, dismissing the question impatiently. Holmes responded: “The man must appear to his informant, whoever it may be, to be outwardly sane, or at least reasonably so, otherwise the informant — presumably a responsible individual who is unaware of his friend’s activities — would not be sharing privileged and confidential information with him. That stands to reason. So we must conclude that aside from a predilection for carving up prostitutes and sending portions of their anatomy through the Royal Mails, he is otherwise quite normal — in appearance and outward demeanor, that is.”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” murmured Watson. “Obvious, quite obvious.”

  “So he is a man who is able to function in society,” Mycroft added. “He probably lives a perfectly ordinary life.”

  “Two lives, I should think,” said Holmes.

  “Like a Jekyll and Hyde character, you mean?” Watson asked.

  Holmes made a face. “Depend on you to dramatize, Watson. Let’s not get carried away with ourselves. I don’t think for one moment that our friend is bedeviled by perverted science or the phases of the moon. The facts of the case are remarkable enough without requiring any embroidery.”

  Mycroft shifted his bulk in the chair. “As to the rest of it, Sherlock — your conclusions concerning Prince Eddy and friends — you are quite correct. I can find no flaw whatsoever in your reasoning.”

  “How gratifying,” replied Holmes dryly.

  Mycroft saw fit to ignore the hint of sarcasm in his voice; younger siblings must on occasion be humored. “I cannot say that I am totally surprised by your disclosure. The young man has long been a source of concern not only to his royal father and mother, but to Her Majesty as well. He simply has no character. If the truth be known, he has no brains. He can hardly read, d’ya know. He was the despair of his tutors. The palace put him into the Royal Navy and shipped him off to sea, but that was no good: They quickly determined he’d never pass the lieutenant’s examinations — couldn’t even learn to tie a knot, let alone learn the ropes, literally as well as figuratively. So then they stuck him in the army, in a cavalry regiment where they figured he’d do the least harm. He can sit on a horse at least, and wears the uniform well — he’s a regular tailor’s dummy, he is. Has his father’s charm, I’ll say that for him. I’ve met him on more than a few occasions, and when he wants to, he can charm the coin right out of your pocket. But empty-headed! All he ever cares about is every possible form of amusement and dissipation. Fortunately he was born of royal blood; he’d never be able to support himself otherwise.” Mycroft shook his head. “
And this is the man who would be king, God save us.”

  Watson was shocked by both Mycroft’s disclosure and his blunt-spoken speech, and his face transparently showed it.

  Mycroft tossed a sardonic glance in his direction. “Don’t be upset, Doctor. He won’t be the first wastrel to reign over England, nor, for that matter, the first imbecile. We have had our share of both through history, as has every royal house on the Continent.”

  Watson said nothing.

  “The damnedest thing is, he’s a wizard at cards, a first-class whist player. I can’t understand that.” He shook his huge head. “I’m a student of the game and pride myself in knowing a thing or two about it, and can tell you it requires intense concentration and no small degree of intelligence. He’s got the attention span of a seven-year-old and the intelligence of a gnat.”

  Holmes picked his head up at this. “Interesting,” he mused.

  “Yes, isn’t it? It never ceases to amaze me.”

  “I take it you are not exaggerating — about either his prowess with cards or his lack of intelligence.”

  Mycroft shook his head. “The boy is a total simpleton, I tell you. Yet he seems to have an amazing facility for memorizing the deck and keeping track of the play. I have never seen anything like it!”

  Holmes wracked his brain. “I have heard of this sort of phenomenon before.”

  “Perhaps you are thinking,” suggested Watson, “of that case I called to your attention some time ago from one of my medical journals? The severely retarded individual who displayed a genius for numbers?”

  “Yes, that’s it! An idiot, brain-damaged from birth, wasn’t he? He could recite complicated series of numbers backward and forward, having heard them just once?”

  “That’s right. He couldn’t learn to tie his bootlaces even, but he had a phenomenal memory when it came to dates and numbers — even complex mathematical formulae. There have been other cases of a similar nature, like the chap who could play intricate scores on the piano having heard them just once — Chopin and Liszt and that sort of thing — and without ever having a lesson or learning to read a note. He, too, was feebleminded. Idiot savants, they’re called, I believe.”