With a grimace, I bent down and Holmes clambered on my back. ‘That’s it. Excellent,’ he said, as he pulled himself up. In my crouched position I heard him working at the window with the chisel. Despite his careful, deliberate actions, the sounds that he made, floating on the still night air, seemed very loud to me.
‘It is a recalcitrant devil,’ he observed with some frustration.
Holmes is the lightest of individuals and extremely thin; nevertheless, after a few minutes I felt my back giving way under his weight, which seemed to increase with the length of time and the concentrated efforts he was employing to force the window open. I was just about to ask him to give me a rest when he gave a little cry of satisfaction, which was followed by a short crack and then the sound of splintering wood.
‘Steady, Watson, just a few more seconds,’ he said, as I heard him slide the window up. Greater pressure was placed on my back as he hauled himself up and over the sill. I felt a wonderful release as his weight lifted and I was able to stand erect again. I looked up to see Holmes’s face peering back at me through the open window.
‘Phase one completed,’ he said. ‘Pass up the bag and then I’ll give you a hand to haul you in.’
Within seconds I was standing at Holmes’s side in the darkened house. We waited for some time, straining our ears to catch any sound or movement, but apart from a clock ticking loudly in a nearby room, the rest was silence.
Holmes extracted a dark lantern from his bag and adjusted the beam. ‘According to my limited knowledge of the house, the corridor is this way,’ he whispered in my ear, pointing to the right. ‘Down here, turn right and then left.’
I nodded. I was happy to rely on his judgement. In the dark I had no idea. Slowly, keeping the beam trained on the ground, we moved in the direction Holmes had suggested. As we turned right at the end of the corridor, I recognised a small bust on a plinth from our visit that morning and realised that we were indeed on the right track. So it turned out to be. Within seconds we had turned into the narrow corridor that housed the three large wooden filing cabinets. Holmes crouched by the first, focusing the beam of the lantern on the drawers. ‘There is no indication of their contents,’ he hissed.
‘Are they locked?’
‘I shall soon find out.’
He handed me the lantern and tugged at the top drawer. It did not move. Applying the chisel he was able to make short work of breaking it open. He pulled the drawer out and I could see that it was crammed with papers. Holmes snatched up a handful and examined them.
‘Any use?’ I asked after a few moments.
‘These are the kinds of records we need, but they are the wrong year. Too early. Let me try the next cabinet in the hope that they move on chronologically.’
He repeated the process with the second cabinet, snapping the lock with ease. Again he examined a sheaf of papers. ‘Ah, this is more like it. 1886. We are close now.’ He passed me the lantern and indicated that I hold it close while he riffled through the next section in the cabinet. His fingers now moved more slowly as he withdrew sheet after sheet to examine them. And then he gave a sharp exhalation. ‘Here we are, Watson: Temple. Mrs and Mrs. October 1887. Their case notes.’ He ripped the sheet from the drawer and secreted it in his overcoat pocket. He turned to me and grinned. As he did so, a loud explosion and a flash of light emanated from the far end of the corridor. Something whizzed past my face and experience told me that it was a bullet.
The next few moments are still confused in my mind as I try to delineate all that happened with such speed and drama. The shock of being shot at almost caused me to drop the lantern, but fortunately I had enough presence of mind to cling on to it. Not only that but I had the sense to turn the beam in the direction from which the shot had been fired. What it illuminated gave my heart a jolt. About twelve feet away was a giant of a man, like some creature from a Grimm’s fairy tale. Harshly lit by the lantern’s wavering beam, he appeared to be well over six feet tall and built like a buffalo. His face was remarkably round and red and encased by a riot of unruly hair and beard. He could well have just emerged from a prehistoric cave. However, what was perhaps more daunting than his bulk and the ferocious grimace on his frighteningly ugly face was the fact that he held a very large pistol in his hand and it was aimed at me. I cannot claim that my next move was calculated or even considered. It occurred instinctively: an innate reaction of self-preservation. I took a step forward and flashed the beam of the lantern straight into his face. He squinted and he gave a brief groan of discomfort as, blinded by the light, his shot went wide.
With a roar, he advanced on us. Holmes went forward to meet him with such speed that the ogre had no time to aim the pistol before my friend plunged the chisel deep into his breast. He uttered an inhuman, almost bovine bellow, a strange mixture of surprise and fury. While he was distracted by the pain and shock of his wound, Holmes was able to grab the gun from his hand before retreating. The chisel remained stuck in the man’s chest, a dark stain spreading around it. With another roar, he wrenched the chisel from its resting place and flung it to the ground. He then began to lumber towards us.
‘Run,’ Holmes cried, as he fired off a warning shot. I needed no further bidding and I hared down the hallway with Holmes close at my heels. By now there were voices raised elsewhere in the house. As we reached the window by which we had gained access, there were shadowy figures appearing from all directions, some carrying oil lamps, bobbing amber spots of light in the gloom. More shots were fired. As I clambered over the window ledge, I saw our giant assailant grab hold of Holmes, haul him off the ground and begin to shake him as though he were a rag doll. Then there was another shot and the creature cried out in pain once more and instantly released his grip on my friend. Both men crumpled to the floor, but Holmes was quickly on his feet again and followed me out of the window. We landed in an ungainly fashion on the ground below.
Someone in the darkness cried out, ‘Stop, you devils!’ and two further shots were fired. Once out of the building, we ran as fast as we could into the maze of streets. We kept going for about ten minutes until, completely out of breath, I begged Holmes that we stop for a while.
We both stood panting in the doorway of a tobacconist’s shop. I thought Holmes sounded particularly wheezy until I realised he was laughing in that strange, almost silent fashion of his.
‘We shifted from melodrama to farce, eh, Watson? All we needed was Messrs Gilbert and Sullivan to set tonight’s adventure to music and we would have a fine comic opera.’
‘We nearly got killed,’ I replied, sternly, failing to see the humorous aspect of the situation.
‘Such circumstances always add a little extra spice to an investigation. It was obvious that we were expected. Mrs Chandler, or more likely her master, never intended for us to leave those premises alive. Hence the presence of the Neanderthal nightwatchman armed with a pistol. Not the usual sort of guardian in a nursery. And you saw those others coming to his aid. The place was full of armed men, waiting for us.’
‘He was a frightful creature. He looked like something out of a circus sideshow. Is he dead?’
‘I fear so. When he grabbed me, there was only one way I was going to escape and that was to shoot him. If I had not pulled the trigger when I did, he would no doubt have broken my neck.’ He paused for a moment, features taking on a more sombre expression. ‘Ah, Watson, this kidnapping case is taking on a very dark hue and I suspect it will grow a great deal darker before we get to the bottom of it.’
Nine
The grey light of dawn was struggling to make its presence felt in the dingy attic room. Everything seemed to be washed in a stale muddy monochrome; even the boy curled up on the makeshift bed blended into the grey sacking that half-covered his body. His eyes were closed and his small frame rose and fell gently as he slept.
‘Has he been drugged?’ These were the first words the dark gentleman uttered as he entered the room. He saw no necessity for the nicety of a greeting.
These were hired hands who, under other circumstances, would not be allowed within ten feet of him. They were paid for their services. That was all the recognition they needed.
Annie Grimes rose awkwardly to her feet. ‘He has, sir, but it weren’t an easy task. He’s not been taking his food. Got a good spirit has the lad. We had to force the potion down him. It was in a pot of hot milk, but he tried hard to spit it out. Still…’ She paused for a conspiratorial smile before continuing. ‘Still, we persevered.’ She nodded towards the child. ‘He’s dead to the world, now. Ain’t he, Percy?’
Percy, who had been hovering in the shadows, stepped forward at the mention of his name. ‘Dead to the world he is, right enough, sir. Ready for the journey.’
The dark gentleman gave a brief nod. ‘I have the carriage waiting outside. Bring the boy down.’
Some moments later Percy Grimes carried the drugged youth, wrapped in a rough woollen blanket, out to the waiting carriage.
‘Lay him on the seat inside. I’ll watch over him during the journey,’ said the dark gentleman as he opened the carriage door.
‘Right you are.’ Grimes did as he was bidden. The boy stirred fitfully and his eyelids flickered momentarily, but once his head was resting on the carriage seat he slipped back into deep slumber.
‘That will be all for now,’ said the dark gentleman, flipping a sovereign in the direction of Grimes, who caught it with practised ease. ‘I will be in touch when I require your services again.’
‘Much obliged, sir,’ replied Grimes, touching his forelock. Such an action was against the grain, but he knew that playing the part of a humble and obedient servant might very well gain him further employment and as he had observed to Annie, ‘The dark gentleman pays a good whack.’
With a cry of ‘drive on’, the carriage door slammed shut and the vehicle lurched forward, quickly gaining speed.
For some moments Grimes stared after the departing carriage and then he spat in the gutter.
Ten
Dr Watson’s Journal
The next day I rose somewhat later than is my usual custom. I was more than a little fatigued by the events of the previous night. I kept forgetting that I was no longer the lithe young man who had travelled to Afghanistan with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. I prided myself that I kept reasonably fit, but however hard one tries, one cannot hold back middle age.
On entering our sitting room, I discovered Holmes at the table, his old clay pipe clamped in his mouth and his brow furrowed as he studied some sheets of paper. It was clear from the debris on the table that he had breakfasted some time ago.
He glanced up at my approach. ‘Ah, my dear fellow, how are you this morning?’
‘A little stiff and tired.’
‘Hot coffee and some of Mrs Hudson’s bacon and scrambled eggs should soon help revive you and put that old spring back in your step.’ He favoured me with a brief smile before returning to his perusal of the papers before him.
I took up his suggestion and some fifteen minutes later I was tucking into our landlady’s delightful comestibles. I had not realised how hungry I was. When I pushed away the empty plate and drained my coffee cup, I felt a hundred per cent better than I had done when I’d dragged myself out of bed.
I turned to my friend, who had been smoking quietly with his eyes staring dreamily at the ceiling. I knew this mood. He was deep in thought, weighing facts against possibilities, comparing the evidence we possessed with various theories.
‘What have you learned from those documents we obtained last night?’ I asked, and I could not resist adding, ‘The ones that nearly cost us our lives.’
Holmes lifted three sheets of paper from the table and let them fall from his grasp. ‘They tell us little but provide one vital piece of information: the name of the woman who brought the baby, the little boy with the triangular birthmark, to Mrs Chandler: Alice Sunderland.’
‘Is there an address?’
‘There is a street. Bat Street. No number.’
‘Bat Street?’
‘Whitechapel.’
‘Not a very salubrious area.’
‘Indeed. But considering the circumstances concerning the child, I hardly expected anything else. It could, I suppose, have been the child of a servant who needed to get rid of it in order to retain her position in a respectable household, but the Whitechapel address implies it is more likely that the boy is the offspring of a street woman.’
‘They have notoriously brief lives,’ I observed. ‘Few live to be more than forty years of age, riddled with disease of all humours. It is a wretched existence.’
Holmes nodded. ‘I well remember the poor women we encountered during the time of the Ripper murders.’
I saw the sadness in his eyes as he thought back to those sad, grotesquely painted, essentially fragile creatures who haunted the streets of Whitechapel. They were the prey of the drunkard’s blow, the pimp’s ill-treatment, disease, hunger and at that time, the Ripper’s blade also.
‘And this woman, this Alice Sunderland, if she is one of those unfortunates, it is unlikely that she will still be living in Bat Street after all this time.’
‘Indeed. Our lead is fragile in the extreme. She could be dead or have moved on. We shall just have to test the waters.’
‘When do you intend to visit Whitechapel?’
‘The place comes alive – if that is the phrase I want – at night. I suggest an early evening saunter along those benighted streets.’
* * *
I had intended to have a light lunch and take an afternoon nap before our evening excursion in an effort to fully recover from our adventures of the previous night. However my plans were disturbed by the arrival of a visitor. Mrs Hudson bore up his card on a tray, and Holmes glanced at it and handed it to me with a sardonic chuckle.
The card read: ‘Inspector Dominic Gaunt, Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard, London’.
‘Since when have the police been issued with visiting cards?’ I asked.
‘I think this is a personal affectation. Inspector Gaunt appears to be one of the newer breed of inspectors that our old friend Lestrade has told us about: a little too pompous and arrogant for their own good. At least that’s Lestrade’s view. Now we can judge for ourselves.’
Our visitor entered our sitting room a few moments later. He was a tall, impressive figure, athletic in build with square handsome features and a thick mane of black hair. He was impeccably dressed and had keen, intelligent eyes. This policeman was certainly a contrast to the rather shabby, shambling figure of our rat-faced friend Giles Lestrade.
‘Mr Holmes, it is a great pleasure and honour to meet you,’ he said, his voice rich and deep with a slight hint of an Irish accent. He grasped my friend’s hand and shook it warmly.
Holmes smiled and nodded his head. ‘It is always a pleasure to meet a member of Her Majesty’s police force. You will know that this is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson.’
‘Sir,’ he said, turning to me in acknowledgement, but I was denied the privilege of a handshake.
‘Pray take a seat and tell us what brings you to our door, Inspector,’ said Holmes, indicating a chair. Inspector Gaunt did as he was asked.
‘I come to you concerning a rather delicate manner, Mr Holmes. I am currently in charge of the Temple kidnapping investigation.’ He paused and cast a searching glance at my friend, whose face remained a neutral mask. ‘It has come to my attention,’ continued Gaunt with a certain amount of awkwardness, ‘that you are also carrying out your own enquiries concerning this case.’
‘Oh,’ said Holmes, casually, ‘and how have you come into possession of such information?’
Gaunt hesitated. It seemed as though he was trying to decide how to respond to Holmes’s question. However, my friend did it for him.
‘No need to prevaricate, Inspector. You no doubt were told by your surveillance officer, who is positioned not far from the Temple residence’s entrance gate. I observed him yesterday when we
paid a visit there. If my memory serves me right – and it usually does – he was dressed as some kind of artisan with a bag of tools.’
At first Gaunt seemed surprised at this revelation and then his face softened into a smile. ‘You are quite right, sir,’ he said. ‘The fellow you refer to is one of my men.’
‘Mr Temple has no doubt expressed his dismay at the police’s progress in this investigation and when your keen-eyed spy saw us arriving at the house, it would be easy to surmise that we had been engaged to supplement the official enquiry.’
‘Indeed. And as you intimate we have made scant progress in this affair. Both the boy and his abductors seem to have vanished off the face of the earth.’ Gaunt ran his fingers thorough his luxuriant hair. ‘That’s why I am here to enquire if you have made any headway with the matter. We should work together rather than separately…’
Holmes held up his hand to silence the policeman. ‘I am afraid, Inspector, it is a cast-iron rule of mine that I work alone in the interest of my client. It is only at the moment of climax that I am prepared to call in Scotland Yard.’
‘But surely our combined efforts…’
Holmes shook his head. ‘If I had wanted to be part of the Metropolitan machine I should have enlisted in the force.’
‘But if you have any pertinent information, surely you would be prepared to share it?’
‘Possibly. But at present I have gleaned nothing that could be of any use to you. It seems that we are both staring into the darkness hoping to catch a gleam of light. I am afraid that I cannot help you.’
Gaunt’s features darkened and his eyes blazed with suppressed anger. ‘Cannot or will not?’ he snapped.
Holmes made a dismissive gesture with his hand, prompting our visitor to rise abruptly from the chair. ‘I had expected more of you, Mr Holmes,’ he said with some heat. ‘There is a little boy’s life at stake. I would have thought that issue was paramount…’
The Ripper Legacy Page 4