The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors

by Edward B. Hanna

  Calling upon some hidden resource, he rallied. He somehow gained control of himself and sat upright, the color returning to his cheeks. Pushing them away, he rose to his feet and began pacing the room, furiously puffing upon a fresh cigar. The three of them could only admire his strength and resilience and recuperative powers.

  “We must decide what to do!” he announced in a strong, determined voice, once again the commanding figure. “We must come up with a scheme, we must choose a course of action! None of this must be allowed to compromise the throne, to tear the nation asunder. That is our first concern, and in deciding upon the course we will follow, that must be our first consideration.”

  He pointed his cigar at the three of them, his bulging eyes burning with intensity. “We vill not allow this to destroy our nation and our Empire! Is that clear?”

  Then, to no one in particular and half under his breath: “Damn that boy, vat is wrong with him? Vat in God’s name is wrong with him! It is the influence of that damn Stephen, I am sure of it!”

  “Sir?”

  “Oh, that Stephen fellow — Eddy’s tutor at Cambridge. I never should have allowed it! I vas given terrible advice about that damnable man. He is to blame, I just know it!”

  Then, a thought suddenly occurring to him, the prince jerked his head around.

  “Where is Eddy now? Do you know, Mycroft? In London, is he, with his goddamn Nancy-boys?”

  “No, sir. In York, I believe, with his regiment.”

  The prince’s eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets, he was so angry.

  “Vell, bring him back — instantly! I vant him here, before me! Now!”

  “No!”

  The prince spun around in surprise.

  Holmes, who had remained quietly in the background until now, startled everyone with his sudden exclamation, the prince most of all, for it was a rare occurrence for anyone to dispute an order of his, or even question one.

  The prince glared at him wide-eyed, his mouth open in disbelief.

  Holmes’s tone was respectful but firm. “That would be a serious mistake, Your Royal Highness, and I must caution you against it.”

  The prince looked from Holmes to Mycroft, not believing his ears.

  Mycroft cleared his throat nervously. “At least hear him out, Bertie,” he said, appealing to reason. “I think you will find that he has good and sufficient motives.”

  The prince glowered at them both, breathing heavily, his bearded chin outthrust. He was not a man who welcomed unsolicited advice at any time, nor was he accustomed to it being offered.

  “Please, Bertie. Listen to what he has to say, I beg of you. To make a wrong move, to do anything precipitous, could have tragic results.” Mycroft stood in front of him, palms upward. “I beg of you,” he repeated.

  The prince considered him for a moment, then exhaled. “Very vell,” he said. “Go on, I am listening.”

  Holmes clasped his hands behind his back and, leaning forward like some gaunt bird of prey, his sharp features silhouetted dramatically by the single light over the table behind him, he marshaled his arguments with all the force at his command. He spared the prince nothing, using none of the delicate, tactful language that royalty was accustomed to hearing. The matter was extremely grave, he said. The future of the country was at risk. Now was not the time to give in to anger and play the role of the outraged father, but to think of the greater good. It was the time to act the statesman, to make difficult choices and personal sacrifices. The welfare of the nation must come first. It was, he suggested in no uncertain terms, the time to act like a king.

  He was as merciless in his choice of words as he was in his choice of argument, and the color once again had drained from the prince’s cheeks. No one had ever dared speak to him that way; no one had ever been that blunt or that bold.

  “If we are to save the day, sir,” Holmes said, concluding, “if a scandal is to be avoided and if the throne is to be kept secure, the killer must be stopped. He must be identified and taken into custody — and quickly, before he can act again. He must be prevented from committing another murder. To alert him now, to let him know that we are getting close, would be to ruin everything. If he was to learn that Prince Albert Victor has been summoned to your presence and confronted with the facts available to us, then our chance may well be lost. He is very shrewd, this man. If he discovers that we are on his track, there is no predicting what he will do. And if he is as close to the prince as I suspect him to be, he will find out, sir, make no mistake.”

  Holmes looked earnestly into the eyes of the Prince of Wales.

  “We must play him like a fish, Your Highness. We must show him the lure and allow him to take it, and then I shall set the hook and reel him in, sir. I shall pull him in and take him! Depend upon it!”

  After Holmes had finished, the prince considered him for the longest while without speaking, his eyes boring through him. Then he took a turn around the room, deep in thought, to come back finally to where Holmes was standing. He looked at him for another long moment before saying anything.

  “Vut vill you do? How vill you go about this... this fishing business of yours?” His eyes bored into Holmes.

  Holmes shrugged. “For that I shall require your cooperation, sir. I shall need your permission to, ah, delve into your son’s private affairs to some extent — his friends, his acquaintances, his servants, his comings and goings.

  “Spy on him, you mean!”

  Holmes met his gaze directly. “Yes, sir.”

  Mycroft shifted his bulk nervously.

  The prince considered this amazing request, then returned his gaze to Holmes. His face was pale, his features worked with conflicting emotions. When he spoke again, it was in a tired voice, barely audible.

  “Very vell. You vill have your vay. It is obvious I have little choice in the matter. I vill give instructions to have you furnished with everything you require. You vill have carte blanche.”

  He nodded to Mycroft and turned as if to leave, but stopped and looked back at Holmes, his jaw quivering, his eyes once again fierce.

  “But I tell you this: If you are wrong, Mr. Sherlock Holmes — if you fail — I shall curse you with my dying breath.”

  He spun on his heel and quickly left the room.

  Twenty-One

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1888

  “This case grows upon me, Watson. There are decidedly some points of interest in connection with it.”

  — The Adventure of the Priory School

  The late afternoon post arrived along with the first tentative thrusts of a typical autumn gale sweeping up from the Channel. The cold rain that had been falling sullenly throughout the day had turned heavier, and fitful gusts began to rattle roof tiles and chimney pots across the city, definite indications that the night would be one of fierce winds and freezing, wet discomfort — an evening best spent indoors in front of the fire with an engrossing book and a glass of something warming close at hand. The rain began beating steadily against the windowpanes as Mrs. Hudson climbed the seventeen steps to their rooms with the mail delivery in hand.81

  Watson was busy adding coal to the fire, so it was Holmes who greeted her at the door. He had only recently returned, having been on the street the better part of the day, and he was glad to be in out of the rain and into dry clothes.

  “It would seem we are in for a nasty one, Mrs. H.,” said Holmes cheerfully. It was typical of his perverse nature that the onset of a storm should perk his spirits up.

  She glanced toward the window and sniffed. “And the newspaper called for ‘bright intervals’ today. Shows you how much they know.”

  “Quite so, quite so.”

  “You’ll be wanting your tea now, then?”

  “Anytime it is convenient for you, dear lady,” replied Holmes absently, sorting through the post.

  “There’ll be mutton for yer supper. Yer won’t be going out now, will ye?” she asked with a suspicious look, as if daring him to reply in
the affirmative.

  “No, no. We are in for the night, I believe. It won’t be fit for man or beast in any case. Mutton will do very nicely. You will be more generous with the onions this time, won’t you? You know how partial I am to roasted onions with your lamb. And we shall have it with a bottle of the Médoc from the cellar, if you would be so kind.”

  She nodded and departed, and Holmes, still engaged in flipping through the mail, nudged the door closed with his foot. “Sampson’s is advertising reduced prices on selected items of haberdashery, I see,” he called to Watson. “Did I not hear you say the other day that you were in need of new shirts?”

  Watson looked up. “No. Pajama sleeping-suits, actually.”

  Holmes wrinkled his nose. He did not approve of the newfangled sleepwear, an innovation from India that had become increasingly popular in recent years. Watson, of course, had been introduced to the garment when he served on the subcontinent, and had tried to convince Holmes of its practicality, even presenting him with a pair the previous Christmas. Holmes, creature of habit that he was, would have none of it (“Can’t see the logic in removing my shirt and trousers upon retiring, only to replace them with another shirt and another pair of trousers” was his observation). The pajamas resided untouched in the bottom drawer of his dresser along with the frightfully flamboyant necktie Watson had given him the year before.

  Holmes continued sorting through the mail.

  “Anything there for me?” asked Watson, rising from the fireplace and dusting off his hands.

  “Oh, nothing of any great interest by the looks of it,” Holmes replied casually. “Only this from Marlborough House.”

  “Marlborough House!”

  Watson dashed over and snatched the letter out of Holmes’s hand. Holmes chuckled as Watson excitedly broke the seal and ripped the envelope open.

  “It’s from Sir Francis Knollys, the Prince of Wales’s personal private secretary,” Watson said. “Why, there’s a five-pound note enclosed!”

  Watson held up the crisp new bill to the light and examined it with wonder.

  Holmes chuckled again. “Fancy that!”

  “The letter says His Royal Highness enjoyed meeting me and apologizes most profusely for neglecting to pay his debt before departing last night following our game. Can you imagine?”

  “Five pounds?” remarked Holmes, a sly smile on his lips. “Wasn’t the wager for ten?”

  “Oh, I am sure His Highness forgot, or Knollys got it wrong. The fiver will do nicely. I think I shall have it framed.”

  Holmes laughed. “I had heard that HRH has a very selective memory when it comes to paying off his gambling debts, and apparently it is true. When he wins, he invariably remembers the correct amount to the penny. When he loses, he can remember only half the amount. It must be splendid to have a mind like that — and to be able to get away with it.”

  Watson was paying him no heed, occupied as he was with reading and rereading Knollys’s note.

  Holmes prattled on: “A peculiarity of the royal education, I shouldn’t wonder: When he was learning his sums, he was evidently taught to divide but not to multiply. I’d be curious to know how many of his cronies have had the temerity to correct his arithmetical mistakes down through the years,” he mused. “Not many, I would wager.”

  “What, what?”

  “I said, I should be willing to wager that not many of the prince’s gambling friends have ever had the courage to insist on full payment of their winnings,” repeated Holmes. He added: “I should be willing to wager, but not with the prince — most definitely not with the prince.”

  Watson had not heard a word he had spoken. “Can you imagine that?” he marveled. “A five-pound note from the Prince of Wales. He actually remembered! With all that he has on his mind, he remembered. Yes, I shall definitely have it mounted and framed. What a wonderful keepsake!”

  “Oh, that is one game of snooker I don’t think he shall soon forget,” said Holmes. “Your play was simply brilliant. I never dreamed your skills at the game were that advanced. And such poise, such savoir faire! You never cease to amaze me, old chap. I never seem to get your limits. You really raked him over the coals, you know.”

  Watson smiled and blushed and looked very pleased with himself. “Yes, I did, didn’t I.”

  “It was highly impolitic of you, by the by. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “HRH does not like to lose, you know — at anything. Especially when there is money involved. Most who play with him know enough to let him win, or at least not to show him up as keenly as you did last night. If they ever wish to play with him again, that is. So I wouldn’t count on ever being invited back to the Marlborough Club, if I were you. That was a capital error in judgment on your part, I am afraid.”

  “Piffle!”

  Holmes shot him a mischievous glance. “Indeed, I am surprised he did not have you frog-marched to the Tower straightaway, or transported to Australia, like they used to do.”

  “What nonsense!”

  Holmes watched him in silent amusement as he continued to examine the note, holding it up to the light and turning it this way and that.

  “He must hold his mother in great reverence,” remarked Holmes wryly. “I see that he has contrived to have her portrait imprinted upon it. It is she, is it not? Or is it one of his mistresses?”

  Watson cast him a look. “It is unworthy of you to be so disrespectful, Holmes.”

  Holmes snorted loudly, causing Watson to turn his full attention to him.

  “Why this great enmity between you and the prince, Holmes? You were positively rude to him last night! And he seemed none too pleased to see you either.”

  Holmes did not answer at once. A faraway look came into his eyes, and unconsciously he fingered the gold sovereign affixed to his watch chain, a gesture that did not escape Watson’s notice.

  Finally Holmes spoke. “On the two or three occasions that I have had the dubious honor of meeting His Royal Highness, I have been particularly impressed with the singular degree of shallowness and insensitivity he often displays in his intercourse with others, a selfishness and lack of concern that borders on cruelty. He is a very superficial person, I am afraid, interested mainly in the pursuit of pleasure, and he doesn’t seem to very much care if anyone gets hurt in the process — hardly an endearing quality in any individual, let alone in one who shall someday be king.”

  Watson well remembered Holmes’s last encounter with the Prince of Wales, right here in this very room the previous March (though he was not surprised the prince did not remember him, given the circumstances of the meeting). He remembered how Holmes had even declined to shake the royal hand when it was offered to him upon the successful conclusion of that affair, that “matter of considerable delicacy” that caused the prince to seek his services incognito. And of course he remembered the woman involved, and how shabbily the prince had treated her. The woman, Holmes always referred to her as: Irene Adler.

  Irene Adler was one of the few women Holmes had ever admired — perhaps more than admired, if the full truth be known, though Holmes, self-professed misogynist to the core, would be the last person in the world to ever admit it. Yet the telltale signs were there. For one thing, he invariably toyed with the gold sovereign on his watch chain whenever her name came into the conversation, and rarely at other times: It was she who gave Holmes the coin.82

  It would be best to change the subject, Watson decided.

  The ring of the downstairs bellpull saved him from having to do so.

  “Now, who could that be in weather such as this? Are you expecting anyone, Holmes?”

  Holmes shook his head. “A friend of Mrs. Hudson’s come to tea, perhaps.” His eyes twinkled. “Or a messenger from Marlborough House with your other five pounds. Though I would not count on it if I were you.”

  The tread of Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps were once again heard upon the stair, and Holmes raised an eyebrow.

>   “It only goes to prove what I have always said, Watson, about rushing to judgment without having sufficient data. Would you be so good as to get the door?”

  Mrs. Hudson, breathing a little heavily from the climb, handed a card to Watson without a word, and he in turn crossed the room and handed it to Holmes.

  Holmes glanced at it for a moment, then called out: “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Kindly ask Captain Burton-FitzHerbert to join us, and there will be three for tea, if you would be so good.”

  Holmes handed the card back to Watson.

  THE HONORABLE PEREGRINE BURTON-FITZHERBERT, it read, CAPTAIN, COLDSTREAM GUARDS AND AIDE-DE-CAMP TO HRH THE PRINCE OF WALES.

  It was immediately apparent to both of them that the young man who entered, though not in uniform, was unmistakably what his card said he was: An officer in the Brigade of Guards. Tall and ramrod-straight, his black bowler set squarely on his head, his blond mustache trimmed with military precision and his regimental tie knotted to perfection, Captain Peregrine Burton-FitzHerbert was as much in uniform wearing civilian clothes as he would have been if he were wearing his bearskin and bemedaled scarlet.

  He peered from one to the other of them with the aid of a monocle. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  “At your service, sir,” replied Holmes benignly.

  “Ah, yes, of course. Burton-FitzHerbert, at your service, sir.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I am sent by His Royal Highness to assist you,” he said in clipped tones. “I am under instructions, Mr. Holmes, to do your bidding — to be, sir, your liaison, so to speak, with the royal household. And, may I say, sir, that I am honored to make your acquaintance and look forward to serving under you.” The man snapped a quick bow of his head and actually clicked his heels, Prussian style.

  Holmes seemed taken aback. “Serving under me? Surely not.”

  “It is His Royal Highness’s wish, his explicit instructions, sir, that I place myself under your command — so to speak.”