by Geri Schear
I sank back upon the pillows. While the food had done me undoubted good, the very act of eating had exhausted me.
The boy fixed my pillows and shook out the bedclothes so I was quite comfortable, or as much as was possible in my condition.
“You’ve had some experience in the medical arts,” I said. “But you’re not a practitioner.”
He cocked his head on one side. “What makes you say that, then?” he said.
“You understand the need for food; you’ve done an excellent job of dressing my wound; but this bed does not have the regimented appearance so approved by Miss Nightingale.”
“Spot on, sir,” he said. “My dad died a few years ago and I looked after ’im for a bit before the good Lord took ’im, Gawd rest ’is soul.”
“And your mother, is she still alive?”
“Ain’t got no one,” he said. “Might say I’m an orphan,” and he laughed as if it was a joke. For reasons I cannot explain, I laughed too. That was not wise, for it sparked a spasm of coughing and I was exhausted when I finally stopped.
“That fancy doctor left you some linctus,” the boy said. “Will stop you coughing and help you sleep.”
“I feel I’ve slept for days,” I said.
“You must need it.”
I settled back in the bed and closed my eyes. “I don’t even know your name,” I said as I dozed off.
“Jack,” he said. “Call me Jack.”
2
February 23rd, 1897
I rather over-tired myself yesterday writing up my notes and have received a thorough scolding from Watson. At present I am supposed to be taking a nap. I confess I am fatigued, but my mind races. I shall instead try to continue my narrative of my assault. Focus will avail me far more than sleep, I think.
After several days I felt sufficiently recovered to return home to Baker Street. Having Watson on hand to tend to my medical needs seemed an excellent idea. Then.
Jack brought a hansom to the door, helped me down the stairs, and escorted me home. Mrs Hudson gave a cry when she saw me. At her wail, Watson came down and between the two of them, with much tutting and expressions of concern, aided me into the landlady’s front living room.
It wasn’t until I was safely, and breathlessly, seated upon her divan that I realised Jack was missing.
“Where is the boy?” I said. “Where did he go?”
“Boy?” Watson asked. “What boy, old chap? There is no one else here.”
At my insistence, the good man went and searched the street up and down, but Jack was gone. I cursed myself for a fool that I had not troubled myself to get his full name or any of his particulars.
“You cannot blame yourself, Holmes,” Watson said. “You have been very seriously injured and it’s a wonder you are even conscious.”
“That I am, that I’m not dead in St James’s Park, is entirely because of that boy. I owe him my life, Watson. I must repay him.”
March 3rd, 1897
The Irregulars have nothing to report. Billy, looking as crestfallen as I feel, said, “We did try, Mr ’olmes, but ‘Jack from Whitechapel’ ain’t much to go on with. If you could tell us something else...”
“I know there was something else,” I said. “Something not quite right... Damnation, if I could only remember!”
I paid them for their efforts and sent them away with instructions to keep trying.
Lestrade stopped by this evening with his report but he knows no more than the Irregulars. “Not much to go on, is it? Sorry, Mr Holmes. We’ve had slightly better luck with your attacker, though.”
“You mean you’ve caught him?”
“Well, no... But we have identified him. Take a look at this picture, Mr Holmes. That’s the fellow, is it not?”
“Yes,” I said. “A sailor then, as I thought? Those tattoos are Andalusian, make no mistake; very popular with the mariner classes.”
“A sailor, yes, indeed. Got this picture from the shipping line. Gilberto Calvini is the fellow. An Italian national who came in just a few days ago on a ship from La Havre.”
“And where is he now?”
“Gone back to sea, I’m afraid.”
“He’ll be back,” I said. “You know he must return and when he does I shall have him.”
“I don’t understand, Holmes,” Watson said. “What could this Calvini person have against you?”
“I cannot answer that until I have questioned him.” I sank back onto my cushions. Watson did not need to tell me I was becoming overly excited.
“We’re keeping an eye on the docks,” Lestrade said. “The ruffian must return and we’ll catch him when he does.”
There is nothing to be done and I am forced into that unnatural state called ‘patience’. I can only pray the wait will not be of long duration.
March 6th, 1897
At my insistence, Watson called upon Dr Moore Agar. My friend is somewhat in awe of the good doctor’s reputation: “A Harley Street man, Holmes. Highly prestigious. However did you get him to make a house call?”
“I had nothing to do with the matter, Watson. I did no more than lie there like the idlest man in England. I beg you, go see this illustrious physician, and see who retained him on my behalf.”
A few hours later Watson returned and the mystery, rather than being solved, was rather deepened.
“Dr Moore Agar says he received a letter requesting he attend a most important patient in Jermyn Street. The letter contained a ten pound note.”
I whistled. Even for a Harley Street physician, that was an extravagant sum for one visit. The man did not know who sent him the letter; it was not signed. Unfortunately, he had not kept the document so I remain as uninformed as before. Whoever arranged for me to receive medical care from Dr Moore Agar not only possesses a deep wallet, but they knew I was in Jermyn Street.
I have since reflected upon the curious fact that when we have ample time to ask questions, we do not avail ourselves of it. Rather we squander those precious moments. Watson cites my weakened condition as an excuse, but I am not appeased. There are too many mysteries here and they make a knot in my brain. Why this sudden assault? There are a great many men in London who would gladly carve my name into a tombstone, but I would, I think, recognise them. This sailor is unknown to me. A man for hire, perhaps? Or - and I am reluctant to even voice this thought - has that notorious organisation of Moriarty’s sprung up under new leadership? Ah, there are too many questions and insufficient data to form an answer. And the most pressing question of all: where is Jack?
Other than the boy’s first name, assuming he did not lie, and his apparent Whitechapel accent, I know nothing. He is an urchin like so many thousands of others, with nothing to distinguish him. His clothes were obviously second-hand, and therefore a camouflage to my scrutiny. He wore a cap at all times so I cannot even be certain of his hair colour. And the room was always dark with the curtains drawn. Was that concern for my rest or was there another reason? Bah, there is nothing...
No, there is one oddity I remember: the boy’s hands. When I close my eyes I can picture them. They were clean and the nails well groomed: These were not the hands of a working lad. Nor did the boy seem to have any occupation, or if he did, he neglected it entirely while I was in his care. And there was something about his accent that was... off.
Another thing I remember: a peculiar odour, something that reminded me of bleach. It may not signify; the boy’s clothes may have needed some strong agent to clean them, though I would have thought bleach was an odd choice when simple lye or carbolic would do the job. Another part of the puzzle.
I have thought about it; indeed, I have thought of little else, but I still have not come to any satisfactory conclusion. But I shall. Of that, I am determined.
March 12th, 1897 - Cornwall
I am on holiday.
Is there a more detestable phrase in the English language?
Villains are prowling the streets of London; it is possible the most dangerous organisation in the world has regrouped; the youth to whom I owe my life has vanished... and I am forbidden to work. Indeed, I have been forced to refuse a very promising case: the theft of Lady Dalrymple’s rose diamond. I have been dispatched to the ‘charming’ south for the sake of my health.
Bad enough to have Watson wagging his finger at me, but allied with his new friend Dr Moore Agar, what hope do I have?
I am bored.
Watson is making every effort to keep the locals at bay so I may have “complete rest and solitude.” Ghastly notion. You’d think after all these years, he would realise I am not a man who does well with enforced indolence.
I am amusing myself by encouraging the doctor to befriend the local vicar, a worthy fellow called Roundhay who is more interested in Cornish archaeology than theology. I’ve paid for my sins by having to take dinner at the vicarage. I there made the acquaintance of a morose young man by the name of Treggenis.
Encouraged by my apparent improvement, Watson was persuaded to spend the evening at the nearby pub where he made the acquaintance of some fishermen. “Local colour, Holmes,” he tells me. I can see his eyes sparkle as he writes notes in his fat journal. I wish I could find pleasure in such things. How is a man to find pleasure when there is are wicked men walking about?
If I do not find something to occupy my mind soon I shall not be responsible for my actions.
March 18th, 1897 - Cornwall
Ah, what a relief the last couple of days have been! No doubt friend Watson would chastise me for taking pleasure in a case that did, after all, cause the deaths of two people and the insanity of two others, but I may surely, in these pages, admit my pleasure without reproach. It is not that I was gleeful of the deaths, of course, but of the puzzle it afforded me to solve.
Watson is in a filthy mood this morning. He is cross, justly so, because yesterday I subjected us to an experiment that was very unpleasant and could have proved fatal without his quick thinking. For myself, the nightmares and terrors I faced because of the ‘devil’s foot’ are too hideous to relate. Despite this, I feel much more like myself today and have regained most of my former energy. I had a splendid walk to clear my head and have written up my notes of the case for my files. A very successful holiday, really.
March 20th,1897 - Baker Street
I have been pondering this business of love. It is surely monstrous. The terrible things it leads some men to do. Not that I blame Dr Sterndale for the violent revenge he took upon his lover’s murderer. As I told Watson, I myself have never loved nor am likely to do so. Such passions must surely bias the judgement and that cannot be countenanced in a profession such as mine. He thinks I’m lonely. “A good woman would make a new man of you, Holmes. There’s someone for everyone, I believe. Even you.”
Undoubtedly, this conversation and our holiday adventure will appear in one of his tales. I suspect he will opt for some outlandish title involving the Cornish Devil. I, myself, would prefer ‘An investigation into the radix pedis diabolic and its properties as an instrument of murder.’ A vain hope, alas. We never agree about titles and his good friend and editor, Dr Doyle, always takes his side.
As we took the train home to London this afternoon Watson fell asleep and it occurred to me that he, no less than Sterndale, is willing to risk much for love and loyalty. How else to explain why a man of good sense would willingly stay with me while we tested the effects of that deadly root? I really ought to be horse-whipped for taking advantage of his friendship in that manner.
May 15th, 1897
I received a telegram mid-morning from an Inspector Tavistock Hill requesting I repair at all haste to Notting Hill and assist with a murder investigation.
Watson and I set off in pretty good spirits. It’s been a while since I had a case worth my attention. This double homicide seemed promising. Watson was merry because he won some money from Stanford last night (he did not tell me but his jacket breast pocket was eloquent. He kept waiting for me to say something and so, naturally, I kept silent.) In addition to these little jewels, the weather this week is very mild and pleasant and we can smell the coming of spring at last.
Colville Gardens sits in the shadow of All Saints church. The buildings are, architecturally, sound enough but their beauty is diminished by the squalor that rests upon this entire neighbourhood. A long-necked crowd had gathered and were avid for details, the gorier the better. Is there another country in the world where murder is so relished?
We were met at the door by Tavistock Hill. “Inspector Lestrade said if I needed a hand I should give you a call, Mr Holmes. This is my first murder case so I’d appreciate any advice you can give me. Nothing has been touched.”
He spoke with a curious authority for one so young. His demeanour managed to convey calm and confidence, and yet his freckled nose and smooth chin were thoroughly youthful and gauche.
I examined the steps leading up to the house - a terraced building recently converted into flats - and picked up a cigarette. “A Woodbine,” I said. “With a very wet tip. This may not have been worth the trip after all. Still, since we’re here...”
We went into the building where the victims shared a flat on the ground floor. Hill followed behind me at a careful distance, being exceedingly watchful where he stood. He had two uniformed officers ready to do my bidding in an instant.
The dead bodies were Mortimer Granger and his young wife, Elsie. He was, or aspired to be, an artist in oil colours. His works were scattered all around the dingy kitchen and bedroom, leaning upon shelves, stacked up in piles on the kitchen table. So much had his work dominated, there was almost no room left for domesticity. Indeed, the only domestic element was a once-green apple that sat upon the table. It had several bites taken out of it and was now a brown stump fit only to feed the flies that buzzed unpleasantly around the room.
“The man who bit into this is missing his left incisor,” I said to the Inspector. “His lower teeth have a peculiarly misshapen appearance. It was not the victim; he has all his teeth, and the bite is too big for a woman. Therefore, this belongs to one of the intruders.”
“There are no other apples in the flat,” Hill said. “I thought one of the killers brought it with him.”
“Well done, Inspector,” I said. “I believe you are quite correct.
“I see the artist used this flat as his studio. What a peculiar style of painting. I would not have thought it possible for the impressionist style to be so muddy. He seems to have a fondness for depicting waifs and other unappealing creatures.”
“Well, he was certainly prolific,” Watson said, looking around. “And not very accomplished, if I’m any judge.”
“Prolific, perhaps. But how selfish of the man to use every inch of living space for his own purposes. I cannot imagine his wife was pleased. But perhaps she was the very indulgent sort.”
“Yes,” Watson said, smiling. “These driven individuals are the devil to live with.” He thumbed through the canvases. “The fellow seems to have - or, rather, had - some radical views regarding politics.”
“Radical?” I was following two pairs of bloody footprints through the room.
“Of a socialist nature. These are posters calling for death to the nobility, an end to tyranny, and equal wages for all.”
“Is that radical, Watson? It seems to me you have made similar comments any number of times, particularly when you’ve been working in your clinic at Euston.”
“That’s looking for our current system to be applied equably, Holmes, not for its eradication. I have no problem with the ruling classes... for the most part.”
“Spoken like a true Scot,” I said, laughing.
Watson laughed too then stopp
ed abruptly. “It is not seemly to chortle when two people are lying dead, Holmes.”
Two people were dead, all right; murdered in the most savage manner possible.
The male, wearing only a nightshirt, was lying prone on the kitchen floor. A pool of blood had congealed for several feet around him and the air was heavy with the slightly metallic stench. Granger had lost control of his bladder at the moment of death and the lower half of his nightshirt was still damp.
“A fearful sight this,” said Hill. “Throat cut from ear to ear. Almost took his head clean off.”
“And multiple stab wounds too, I see.” I used my glass to examine these. “The point of impact is slightly curved, you see here, Inspector.”
“Oh, I hadn’t noticed that. Yes, I see what you mean, Mr Holmes. Only... what does it mean?”
“It means the murderer used what is generally called a Bowie knife. You see some of the skin has actually been removed from the jaw? That is because the curved top bevel of the blade was designed to skin animals.”
“Good Lord. What a lot you do see, Mr Holmes. I thought a knife was just a knife.”
“Not so, Inspector,” I said. “You would do well to always examine the wound. The point of entry can tell you a great deal about the weapon. Sometimes, too, it is not a knife that is used. I have seen screwdrivers, broken bottles, and even hot pokers used to stab the victim. I have a monograph on the subject. I think you might find it useful.”
“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” the boy-officer said. “I have no doubt I shall.” He wrote my comments and my monograph’s title in his notebook.
“Where is the other victim?” I said.
“In here.”
The woman was lying diagonally across the bed with her head towards the bottom. From her position, I surmised she was attempting to flee when she was struck down.