Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul

by Gordon Punter

  Holmes nods, “Exactly, Lestrade. Now that I have informed you of his name, I wish to ask for something in return.”

  “Quid pro quo, Mr Holmes.”

  “Yes, Lestrade.”

  “My silence?”

  Holmes stares at Lestrade intently, “The reputation of Dr Watson and his wellbeing is of paramount concern to me. No one outside this room, including Watson, must ever know the true identity of Jack the Ripper. You have no tangible proof against Dr Sleeman, nor his body to determine who he was. Any attempt by you to inform your superiors about what I have imparted to you and I will deny this conversation ever took place.”

  Folding his arms, Lestrade leans back in his chair again, “Then, officially, the identity of the man who committed the Whitechapel murders will forever remain a mystery. [445]Hardly a feather in your cap, Mr Holmes. Is that what you want?”

  Holmes slaps the surface of the desk with his hand, “Yes! Let us be rid of this infernal case and leave it to the historians to squabble over the mystery.”

  Lestrade unfolds his arms, “Dr Watson is most fortunate to have a friend such as you. You have my word, Mr Holmes. [446]I will bite my tongue. The case is closed, but for the record, the file will have to remain open. If I were to close it now, awkward questions would be asked from above.”

  Holmes smiles warmly, “An admirable arrangement, Lestrade.”

  Lestrade taps the mahogany box, “What’s this, then?”

  Retrieving his hat, Holmes stands, “A keepsake. Something I thought you should have.” He politely tips his head, “Good day, Lestrade.”

  Lestrade reciprocates, stands and tips his head.

  Holmes pauses by the door, struck by a feeling of remorse, “You were quite right, Lestrade.”

  Lestrade cocks his head enquiringly, “I was? About what?”

  Holmes murmurs, “Mary Kelly.” He slowly turns to Lestrade, “If I had relented and directed you to Dr Sleeman as you had asked, she would be alive today.”

  “You had no alternative, Mr Holmes. You were obliged to consider the welfare of Dr Watson.”

  Holmes concurs, “Quite so, Lestrade.” He then reiterates a sentiment, comparable to that which he had uttered to Watson at the Reichenbach Falls nearly seven months previously, “If it should ever strike you that I am becoming a little arrogant, or not giving a particular case the attention that it deserves, kindly remind me of that unfortunate woman, Lestrade, and I shall be indebted to you yet again.” He tips his head for a second time, “Good day.” Opening the door, he departs.

  Slowly sitting, Lestrade slides the mahogany box closer to him. Raising its lid, he stares at the inset Liston surgical knife contained within. Picking up a small card, which accompanies the instrument, he reads:

  Due to your stalwart support, this knife, designed to

  alleviate pain, will never be wielded in anger again.

  Returning the card to the box, Lestrade murmurs deferentially, “You’re a gentleman, Mr Holmes. A right fine gentleman, indeed.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Sitting in the armchair beside the burning fire in the sitting-room, Holmes puffs at his cherry-wood pipe, whilst scrupulously examining a bulbous-headed walking stick laying across his knees. He glances at Watson seated opposite him, partially concealed by an open copy of The Times newspaper, “Evidently something troubles you, my dear fellow?”

  From behind the newspaper, Watson replies reticently, “I can assure you, Holmes, that is not the case.”

  Holmes leans back in his armchair, “When a doctor returns from his surgery and hardly says a word all afternoon, he invariably has something on his mind.” He exhales smoke, “Something which troubles him, Watson.”

  Conceding, Watson gradually lowers his newspaper, “You are quite right, Holmes.” He shakes his head despondently, “It is not done. It is simply not done!”

  “Come, come, Watson. The facts, please.”

  Watson blurts, “The blighter has up and left me, Holmes.”

  Holmes sighs impatiently, “Calm yourself. Your incoherency does not aid the situation, Watson.”

  Watson puts aside his newspaper, “Dr Sleeman. I called at our surgery this morning and found him absent. Our secretary, Mrs Hawthorn, said she had not seen him since Friday last. Concerned that he might be unwell, I visited his apartment, which is above the surgery. Getting no response, I eventually forced the door, using a crowbar borrowed from a builder’s yard across the street.”

  “And when you entered, you found what?”

  Watson stammers incredulously, “Nothing, Holmes. Absolutely nothing. The entire apartment was empty. Every piece of furniture had been removed, including the carpet and rugs. The place was utterly bare, as if no one had ever resided there.”

  “No letter of explanation, no forwarding address?”

  Watson shakes his head again, “He had simply disappeared. Vanished, if you like. But I didn’t stop there. I went to [447]Coutts & Co. in [448]Edgware Road and found, to my dismay, that he had closed our business account, after withdrawing the sum of four hundred and sixty guineas.”

  “And this withdrawal occurred when?”

  “Thursday afternoon.”

  “The day before Dr Sleeman was last seen by Mrs Hawthorn on the Friday?”

  Watson nods.

  Holmes deliberates, “Clearly he needed money. Therefore, the contents of the apartment were removed and sold off during the weekend. And then he skedaddled yesterday, whilst you and I were attending the funeral of Mary Kelly.”

  Watson picks up his pipe, “But why should Dr Sleeman abandon our medical practice so suddenly, Holmes? After all, our enterprise has been quite successful.”

  Holmes taps the walking stick laying across his knees with the end of his pipe, “It is an time-honoured maxim of mine that when a person such as Dr Sleeman takes flight, he does so because he believes his life, or his liberty, is about to be cut short. In this particular case, by a [449]cuckolded husband, I suspect.”

  About to light his pipe, Watson suddenly extinguishes the match, “Good Lord, Holmes! Lady Henrietta Iverton.”

  “A frequent patient of Dr Sleeman’s, Watson?”

  “Yes, Holmes. Quite frequent, according to Mrs Hawthorn.”

  “And what of Lord Iverton?”

  “Fifteen years her senior and utterly odious. I had the misfortune to meet him once.”

  Holmes enquires, “Where?”

  “He accompanied Lady Iverton on one of her appointments to see Dr Sleeman. A vile man with a horrid temper. He treated her as if she were a piece of property. An acquired object, if you will, tolerated by him for his own gratification.”

  Quickly placing his pipe in the ashtray, Holmes excitedly claps his hands together, “Bravo, Watson! You have revealed why Dr Sleeman had fled so abruptly. Lady Iverton, starved of affection, had turned to Dr Sleeman for romance, but Lord Iverton had found out about their clandestine liaison and, in turn, had offered Dr Sleeman one of two choices. Leave the country forthwith, or remain and face the dire consequences.”

  Watson stares at him in astonishment, “Astounding, Holmes. Why did I not think of that?”

  Heartened that Watson has embraced his fictitious explanation, Holmes adds, “Of course, unless Dr Sleeman can be located, we may never know for certain. As for Lord and Lady Iverton, I would strongly advise against approaching either of them on the matter.”

  Watson concurs, “Quite so, Holmes. To broach the subject with that tyrant would be tantamount to taking one’s own life.”

  Holmes retrieves his pipe, “Well, my dear fellow, it would appear you are now the proprietor of a medical practice. With a modest list of patrons, some notable, I might add.”

  Watson imparts, “To preserve its success, the enterprise requires two practitioners, not one, Holmes.”

  Holmes counters enthusiastically, “You have everything to gain, and nothing to lose, Watson. With your permission, I will enlist the support of Dr Verner, a relative of mi
ne, who will be more than pleased to oversee the appointment. In the meantime, tomorrow morning, if possible, you may wish to notify the General Medical Council that you would like to advertise the position.”

  Humbled by his support and kind advice, Watson expresses his gratitude, “I am profoundly grateful, Holmes. You have lifted a heavy burden from my shoulders.”

  With the end of his pipe clenched between his teeth, Holmes runs his finger along the walking stick, “Your opinion, Watson.”

  Relaxing, Watson lights his pipe, “Concerning what, Holmes?”

  Holmes indicates the walking stick, “Why this, of course.”

  Slowly leaning forward, Watson stares at the object, “Where on earth did that come from, Holmes?”

  Holmes removes his pipe from his mouth, “Did Mrs Hudson not inform us this morning that a gentleman had called here last night, whilst we were at Marcini’s, and left this behind?”

  Recalling their evening dinner, Watson grins, “By Jove, Holmes, that was a first-rate meal. Lestrade did us proud, he did not skimp on anything.”

  “How did you find the [450]Bordeaux claret?”

  “A vintage year, Holmes.”

  “Three bottles, I noticed.”

  “Strictly for medicinal purposes, Holmes.”

  “And the French cognac?”

  “Self-indulgence, Holmes.”

  Holmes laughs, “I applaud your honesty, Watson.” Standing, he hands him the walking stick, pointing to a broad silver band just below its head, “Pay particular attention to the inscription.”

  Squinting at the inscription, Watson reads aloud, “To James Mortimer, M. R. C. S., from his friends of the C. C. H. 1884.” He looks up at Holmes, “It is quite obvious that the person who called here last night was a doctor.”

  Holmes raises a tutorial finger, “A forgetful doctor, Watson.”

  Watson demurs, “I say, Holmes.”

  “Would you leave a personal item such as this behind?”

  Watson chuckles, “Perhaps after the wine last night, yes.”

  Holmes sighs tetchily, “Putting aside your gastronomical fervour for a moment, what do you think the initials C. C. H. represent?”

  Watson shrugs his shoulders, “Something, something, hunt?”

  Holmes elucidates, “Given that James Mortimer is a doctor, I think we can safely assume that his friends of the C. C. H. were also doctors. Therefore, H does not signify hunt, but hospital. For that reason, the name Charing Cross Hospital naturally comes to mind. Furthermore, the year, 1884, tells us that Dr Mortimer left the hospital nearly four years ago.” Retrieving the walking stick from Watson, he indicates its tip, “You will see, Watson, that the metal [451]ferrule is worn down. Evidently Dr Mortimer does a lot of walking. A country practitioner, perhaps? And look here...” He runs his finger along the middle of the stick, “Teeth marks.”

  Watson interjects, “Those of a dog, Holmes?”

  “Precisely, Watson. A dog who carries his master’s stick, held tightly in its jaws. The teeth marks are too wide for a terrier and, in my opinion, not wide enough for a mastiff. Therefore, the dog may be a spaniel.”

  Drawing on his pipe, Watson queries, “But that does not explain why Dr Mortimer called to see us in the first place, Holmes.”

  Hearing the rat-a-tat-tat sound of the brass knocker on the street door, Holmes murmurs jovially, “I think we are about to find out, Watson.” He lays the walking stick down on the dining-table, “Would you be so good as to greet our guest? After all, you both belong to the same profession, Watson.”

  Quickly putting aside his pipe, Watson rises from his armchair, “Certainly, Holmes.”

  Opening the door of the apartment, he reveals Mrs Hudson stepping from the stairs on to the landing, followed by a tall, gaunt man, wearing a frock-coat and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Watson smiles at her, “Is this the gentleman who called here last night, Mrs Hudson?”

  Mrs Hudson nods, “Yes, Dr Watson. Dr Mortimer.”

  Mortimer stares at Watson, “You are not Sherlock Holmes?”

  Ignoring the question, Watson smiles at Mrs Hudson, “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

  Taking her leave, Mrs Hudson hurriedly descends the stairs.

  Watson turns to Mortimer, “I am not Sherlock Holmes, but I am his close friend and associate. Won’t you please come in?”

  Stepping into the apartment, Mortimer is immediately greeted by Holmes, “Ah, Dr Mortimer, I am Sherlock Holmes.” He retrieves the walking stick from the table and hands it to him, “I believe this belongs to you.”

  Mortimer sighs with relief, “I can be so absent-minded at times. I thought I had left it at the shipping office.”

  Watson closes the door, “Your dog has a name, Dr Mortimer?”

  Taken aback, Mortimer nevertheless utters, “Why, yes. Toby.”

  Holmes interjects, “A spaniel, by any chance?”

  With a confounded expression, Mortimer stares at him, “How on earth could you have known that?”

  Holmes indicates an armchair, “Make yourself comfortable, Dr Mortimer.”

  Clutching his walking stick, Mortimer wearily sits in front of the fire. Holmes picks up his pipe and begins to tap tobacco ash from its bowl into the palm of his hand, “You have a country practice, Dr Mortimer?”

  Leaning his walking stick against the side of the chair, Mortimer imparts, “Devonshire, Mr Holmes. Dartmoor, to be exact.” He turns to Watson, “Are you still practising, Dr Watson?”

  Watson replies hesitantly, “Well, yes, part-time.”

  Throwing the tobacco ash into the fire, Holmes seats himself opposite Mortimer, “And who referred you to me, Dr Mortimer?”

  “Dr Theodore Verner of the Charing Cross Hospital. He said you could be relied upon.”

  Holmes laughs, “Dr Verner, you say?” He looks at Watson, “It is a small world indeed, Watson.”

  Watson smiles, “Apparently so, Holmes.”

  Holmes apologizes, “Forgive me, Dr Mortimer, but it is not often a relative of mine speaks well of me. How may I be of assistance?”

  Mortimer removes a folded manuscript from the inside pocket of his coat, “Have you heard of The Hound of the Baskervilles, Mr Holmes?”

  Filling the bowl of his pipe with tobacco, Holmes replies tersely, “I deal solely in facts, Dr Mortimer, not superstitions.”

  Mortimer taps the manuscript with his finger, “Then you have heard of the legend?”

  Holmes lights his pipe, exhaling smoke, “A spectral hound that is purported to have plagued the Baskerville family for more than a century, since 1742? A hound which you believe was instrumental in the death of Sir Charles Baskerville some three months ago? Yes, I have heard of the legend, Dr Mortimer.”

  Watson splutters incredulously, “How the dickens did you come by that information, Holmes?”

  Holmes divulges, “The Devon County Chronicle, dated 20 of August of this year, Watson.” Again, he addresses Mortimer, “Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore, it is upon the logic, rather than the crime, that we must dwell. But before you continue, Dr Mortimer, allow me to clarify a point of interest. Baskerville Hall is fourteen miles from Princetown Prison. Five miles in the other direction is the only habitable village on the moor, Grimpen. Your medical practice is located there, is it not?”

  Mortimer blinks at him through his spectacles, “Extraordinary, Mr Holmes. Quite extraordinary.”

  Holmes raises a quizzical eyebrow, “I thought my inference was elementary. You are hardly likely to reside on the moor in a cave, are you, Dr Mortimer?”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Located in the heart of the West End of London, the Diogenes Club, an eccentric gentlemen’s club where talking is absolutely forbidden and a cough is enough to get a member excluded, was co-founded by Mycroft Holmes.

  A sedentary creature, Mycroft travels exclusively between his home, his office, and the club, spending as much time at the club as he does at his home and his office combined. Rumour has it t
hat the bizarre rules of the Diogenes Club were introduced by him to reinforce his desire that he should never have to converse with fellow members.

  Seated in a burgundy leather chair beside a blazing fire in the ‘Stranger’s Room’, Mycroft contentedly crosses his legs, savouring the aroma of the cognac in his glass. Upon hearing the measured footsteps of the concierge approaching him across the buffed floorboards of the large Georgian room, he looks up from his drink.

  Extending his arm, the concierge presents Mycroft with a sealed envelope, laying on a circular silver tray which he holds. Placing his brandy glass down on an occasional table next to his chair, Mycroft takes the envelope from the tray, dismissing the concierge with a wave of his hand.

  Hearing the footsteps of the concierge recede across the room, Mycroft opens the envelope and withdraws a single folded sheet of paper from inside. Slowly leaning back in his chair, he begins to read the penned message.

  221b Baker St, W. 20 Nov. 88

  My dear Mycroft,

  As previously instructed by Lord Salisbury and your good self, I have now determined whether or not political radicals, intent on sowing the seeds of insurrection in and around Whitechapel, had indeed infiltrated the Mile End Vigilance Committee.

  As a result of my investigation, I have discovered that a few mischievous rascals do, in fact, exist. However, they are hardly in a position of power to threaten the social order of this country. Therefore, this government should alter course. Instead of attempting to quell an elusive minority, it should devote all its efforts towards enhancing the well-being of the nation. This government has reacted to fear. An illusionary fear spawned by itself.

  Very sincerely yours, Sherlock.

  Incensed by the contents of the letter, Mycroft exclaims, “Why, the impertinent...” Having broken the cardinal rule of the club, he clamps his hand over his mouth, slinking down into his chair and furtively looking around the room.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  This bitterly cold morning, a layer of frost has entirely covered the ground, the trees and the roofs of buildings.