The Murder of Sherlock Holmes

by David Fable

  “What’s the matter, Lilah?” I asked with alarm.

  “They probably know I’m here,” she said fearfully.

  “Who knows? Who’s after you?” I implored.

  She turned and looked up at me with great agitation. “When I saw you at the hospital, I knew…I knew it was a bad omen…I couldn’t stay…I knew they’d find me.”

  “Now calm down, please. Is someone trying to hurt you?” I gently put my hands on her shoulders. She was trembling fiercely.

  “I’ve been walking all night.” She folded and refolded her arms as if they were acting independently of her thoughts. “I was talking to the witch.”

  “The witch?” I said in confusion.

  “The one with the stick and the ball.” Then she whispered hoarsely, “She’s got a dragon.”

  Christopher’s voice came from across the room. “I believe she’s talking about the Temple Bar monument. I’d hazard that she’s in the midst of a delusional state.” He was standing in his doorway looking disheveled and exhausted.

  “She’s got a dragon,” repeated Lilah, as if to make sure that this fact was not ignored.

  I could see that Christopher was correct. Lilah was in some sort of psychotic state. “Sit down, child,” I said to her as I seated her in front of the hearth and proceeded to light a fire.

  Christopher approached and gave Lilah a sympathetic but clinical inspection. “You probably went walking all over Westminster last night, didn’t you, Lilah? Perhaps a little wading in Regent Park?” He flaked some of the mud off her skirt. “I’ll analyze it later to be sure.”

  She smiled up at him and nodded eagerly as if all three of us were now in on some conspiracy.

  “I’d like to try some phenobarbital,” said Christopher. “It would certainly do her some good in her present state and perhaps we could get some logical answers from her.”

  I was in agreement. I picked up the telephone, called the apothecary and asked them to bring over a vial of the sedative. It would not only calm her delusions but act as a truth serum so that we could question her regarding her connection to Holmes.

  While we waited, Christopher described his evening to me. I was positively stunned to find out about how we had been deceived by the fraudulent police sergeant, how he had chased the Renault all the way to the edge of the Thames, his conversation with Wiggins and the death of Mrs. Smithwick. All these pieces had been added to our puzzle. How they fit together was still a mystery. Certainly, Christopher had accumulated a wealth of new information for his timeline.

  While we conversed, Lilah sat in front of the fire, alternately humming, mumbling and suddenly stopping with her head cocked as if to listen to some high-pitched sound. At one point she thoughtfully turned around in her chair and asked, “Dr. Watson, will Mr. Holmes be here soon?”

  “Yes, Lilah, Mr. Holmes will be here shortly,” I answered reassuringly.

  She sat back with a peaceful smile that seemed to come from deep in her soul. A moment later, she abruptly rose from her seat and we watched uneasily as she walked across the room, and, to our relief, entered the bathroom.

  While she was in there, the boy from the apothecary arrived with the sedative. I gave him ten pence and sent him on his way. Christopher retrieved his doctor’s bag and prepared the hypodermic needle. Suddenly, it occurred to us that Lilah had been in the bathroom for quite a long while, and now we could hear the water running.

  I went to the bathroom door and knocked. “Lilah, are you all right?” I called. The sound of water splashing into the tub continued. Christopher came up behind me. Both of us were becoming concerned. I tried the door, but it was locked. I knocked more loudly. “Lilah, please open the door!”

  The door obediently swung open and Lilah stood before us fully naked with her hands at her sides and a beatific smile on her face. “Is Mr. Holmes here yet?” she said hopefully.

  I averted my eyes. “Will you please put something on, Miss Church,” I asked her gently. She made no move to do so, which, in this case, made more sense than my request since her clothes were wet and filthy.

  Christopher calmly went to his room, returned with an oriental silk robe I presumed belonged to one of his lady friends and put it on her. I turned the water off in the half- filled tub and we guided her back toward her seat by the hearth. As we walked her across the room, she craned her neck, eyes searching the apartment as if expecting Holmes to jump out at any moment.

  Once reseated in front of the warm fire, her eyes continued to dart around the room. “We’re going to give you a small injection, Lilah,” said Christopher kindly. “It will make you feel better, and it will make you a little sleepy.”

  “The needle, yes. It makes him feel better,” she said knowingly. She watched as Christopher pulled up the loose sleeve of her robe, put the needle into her arm and pushed the phenobarbital into the muscle. He withdrew the needle and gave her arm a good rub as she started to hum a vague tune that I recognized as that “Ragtime Band” song.

  Presently, her eyelids began to droop, her body relaxed and her chin dropped down toward her chest. She was breathing deeply and comfortably.

  “Are you feeling more relaxed now, Lilah?” I asked her.

  She nodded groggily. “Yes. I’m feeling much better.” Her voice had a rather different quality than when she was in her state of agitation. There was very little East End in it. It had a lovely, musical lilt to it and was actually a touch refined. She could have passed for a shop girl in Knightsbridge.

  “Why did you come here today?” I asked her.

  “To see Mr. Holmes,” she said dreamily.

  “And you think Mr. Holmes is here?”

  A tear rolled down her cheek, and she didn’t answer.

  “Lilah, why is Mr. Holmes supporting you and Alexander?”

  “Because he loves us.” She smiled warmly and wiped away the tear.

  “And did you know you are in his will?”

  “I shan’t speak of it,” she said suddenly becoming quite defensive. It didn’t seem to be a response to my question regarding the will, but rather a reference to something else bubbling up from her unconscious.

  “You must have been very special to Mr. Holmes. Do you knowthat?”

  “I must never speak of it,” she said, as if repeating someone else’s directive.

  “Speak of what?” I asked innocently.

  She looked up into my eyes. There was a fear in them, but this time it was not the irrational fear she had exhibited earlier. It was a deep, dreadful remorse.

  “Shall we give her some more sedative?” asked Christopher. It sounded more like a suggestion than a question.

  “No. This dose has yet to take full effect…Lilah, what would you like to tell me?” I asked soothingly.

  She did not answer.

  “Lilah, you know who I am, don’t you?”

  “Of course I know you, Doctor Watson.”

  “And you trust me, don’t you?”

  “Mr. Holmes said there is no man that deserves trust more,” she said with great sincerity.

  “You must tell me what’s on your mind. It might be of some importance in finding the one who…” I stopped before finishing the sentence. I didn’t want Lilah to lapse back into a state of agitation. Christopher watched patiently. “Would you please tell me about Alex’s father, Hermes Hollocks?” I asked, trying a different approach.

  She looked across the room. “That’s Mr. Holmes’s chair.” She was looking at Holmes’s velvet armchair, where he spent many an hour contemplating cases or some piece of evidence.

  “Tell me about Mr. Hollocks,” I asked again.

  “Hollocks,” she repeated hauntingly. “Mr. Hollocks.” Lilah looked up at me and swallowed hard. “What of Mr. Hollocks? He’s gone.”

  “Tell me about the first time you met him.”

  “The first time,” she repeated and looked back over at the chair, her voice drifting off dreamily. The drug had taken its full effect, and I was concerned s
he was going to fall off to sleep before we were able to get anything useful out of her. Her mouth moved, but no words came out. She seemed on the verge of saying something. Christopher and I waited. Her eyes were far-off, as if reliving an event. And then the words came. “He asked if I still had my virginity, and I said I did. He said he wanted to observe…that part of me, so I let him observe… Looking led to touching…I got astride him as I would a horse…He rocked me slowly on his lap…There was pain but then there was pleasure mixed in with it. I could see from his face that he was enjoying it, so I didn’t interrupt his pleasure. I had nothing to compare it to back then, but now I know it went on a long time. After that, whenever I would come up to the flat, he would have a bath ready and wash me with a sponge and sweet-smelling soaps and pour oil into the water. The other Irregulars started to notice, particularly Wiggins. You couldn’t get much by Wiggins. I said I was doing work for a rich lady and she wanted me to be clean and smell right.” She paused. Both Christopher and I remained silent. “He told me I was with child before I knew it. He said he saw from my breasts. He went near mad that day. I’d never seen him like that. He was always so calm, but that day he was fretting. I told him I wouldn’t tell anyone. I would take care of his baby. I was proud to have it.” She stopped and looked up at us doe-eyed with no trace of shame or regret.

  “Bloody hell, what fools we’ve been!” exploded Christopher. “It’s right in front of us!” He pointed to the names on his timeline. “Hermes Hollocks is an anagram for Sherlock Holmes.”

  By God! I wish Holmes were here to refute all I’ve written! Nothing has been more painful than to tarnish the reputation of a man I loved and admired so deeply. Not the blasted bullet in my leg, not even the death of my beloved. But Holmes was just a man, and he had faults. And they were deeper and more secretive than I ever imagined. Whether he took the seventeen-year-old girl during one of his cocainized states or yielded to some base, carnal moment, there was no excusing it. There was no overlooking the selfishness of the act.

  Christopher and I stared at each other, the sheer weight of the truth silencing us. Finally, he spoke. “Who do you think knows about this?”

  I couldn’t find my voice. I could process the question, but could form no answer.

  Christopher looked down at Lilah. “Does Alexander know who his father is?”

  She was deeply asleep.

  “Let her rest,” I managed to say.

  Christopher nodded, gently picked her up, put her in his bed and quietly closed the door. “Doctor, are you all right?” he asked when he returned. I must have looked quite shaken.

  “Just a bit unnerved by it all,” I admitted.

  “I assume you’re convinced of the accuracy of Lilah’s story,” said Hudson delicately.

  “Yes I am,” I responded gloomily.

  “As am I,” he said tersely, as if making no particular moral judgment.

  My thoughts were cloudy. “Wiggins knows, to be sure. Moriarty knows, also.” I mumbled, answering the question I was unable to articulate an answer to minutes before. “Moriarty alluded to it that first time I visited. I just didn’t understand what he was referring to.”

  Christopher returned to his timeline to update it with this new information. “Do you think it’s possible either of them was blackmailing Holmes?” he said while scribbling notations and taping them on the wall.

  “It’s possible,” I said distractedly. “I have a few personal things to attend to Christopher,” I declared abruptly. The truth was, I could not bear to discuss the subject any further. I needed to collect my thoughts.

  “Of course,” said Christopher, leaving off his cutting and taping and looking at me thoughtfully. “Please take care of whatever you need to. I will see to Lilah.” He understood what I was saying and, this time, perhaps even how I felt. I quickly gathered my things and left the flat.

  When I reached Oxford Street, I attempted to focus my jumbled thoughts and to evaluate my feelings. From whence did my outrage arise? Did I feel betrayed and hurt for not being trusted with this information about Lilah? Did Holmes fear a lack of discretion, or rather did he fear what my judgment of him may have been? Perhaps that was the answer. Holmes would have considered any flaw, any chink in his armor, to be a fatal one. He would have found it intolerable to be exposed to the judgment of his peers in any unfavorable light.

  Walking past, I glanced at the stuffed mannequins in the window of a shirtmaker and caught my own reflection. How could I have been so blind? Were there things I was not allowing myself to see? Was I so enamored with Holmes that I unconsciously ignored what was right in front of my face? Holmes was a mere mortal, something I had barely considered when he was alive. He made a mistake and tried to rectify it as well as he could. Hadn’t he done properly by this young woman? He made a generous attempt to live as a family. This was an enormous sacrifice given Holmes’s disposition. But now was I merely rationalizing his behavior in my mind?

  I turned the corner onto Bond Street, and there was some sort of commotion going on in front of one of the art dealers’ establishments. A dozen suffragettes with signs saying “Votes For Women” were being rounded up by the police and they seemed to be putting up some fierce resistance as onlookers gathered. One young woman in tweed pants and blazer and long, dark, flowing hair was sitting on the pavement with her arms and legs wrapped around a lamppost while a policeman was beating her with his nightstick in an effort to dislodge her. I rushed over to intervene and leaped between the young woman and the stick-wielding officer.

  “Stop this at once!” I demanded.

  “Stand aside, sir,” the policeman said warningly with his stick raised. He was tall and bony with the brushy sort of moustache that police seem to favor nowadays. His face was red from exertion and he had a barely contained anger in his eyes.

  “Why? So you that you may strike this woman again?”

  “This is a matter of the law, sir.”

  “We’re engaged in a peaceful demonstration for our rights,” the woman cried. Some of her fellow suffragettes shrieked their agreement as they tussled with the policemen trying to subdue them.

  “Step aside, sir, or I’ll have to arrest you, too,” he warned again as he raised his stick a little higher.

  “If you wish to arrest me for defending this young woman’s rights, then proceed. I will have your badge and give you a lesson on law in the bargain.”

  “What is your name, sir?” he boomed impatiently.

  “John H. Watson. Close personal friend of Scotland Yard Commander Lestrade, with whom I’m meeting later this afternoon.”

  There was an immediate change of attitude as he lowered the stick. “Dr. Watson…” he stammered, “…these women threaten to vandalize public property.”

  “Well, until they do, you have no cause to arrest them for this assembly,” I declared.

  “A rug dealer on Wigmore Street said they broke his window,” he countered.

  “Then have the rug dealer go down to the station to make a formal charge.” I kneeled down beside the young suffragette who was still hugging the lamppost. She was quite pretty with narrow features, perfectly arched dark eyebrows and full lips. “What is your name, child?”

  “Lilian Lenton,” she replied. She was no more than twenty-one years of age.

  I looked up at the officer. “There. Now you know her name.”

  The officer grumbled something under his breath, turned to his fellows and waved them off. They unhanded the other two women they were detaining from the group and grousily withdrew to their paddy wagon.