‘It doesn’t matter. Martha, come and see, do come.’
She held her hand to me, beckoning me up. I hesitated. I did not want to see that room full of blood. I pictured the lurid illustration in the Police News, but full of colour, full of browns and reds and blacks, dried blood. I didn’t want to see that.
‘Martha, you should see,’ Mary said softly, still holding out her hand. She was right, I should. I walked up the stairs and looked at Mary.
Her face was wet with tears. She took my hand and led me into the room where the murder had taken place.
The room was full of flowers. They lay over an inch deep on the floor. They were piled up in the corner. They were scattered thickly on the bed and table. Not a drop of blood was to be seen. Instead the room was full of yellow and bright pink and delicate blue and the softest, most exquisite petals.
‘They’re not expensive flowers,’ Mary said from behind me, her voice breaking. ‘They’re the kind you buy from girls on the corner, or that you scavenge from Covent Garden. Some of them are wild flowers. I cannot think where they found those.’
‘Who . . . how . . . ?’ I asked breathlessly. I stroked the petals of a daisy, so beautiful and pure in the morning light.
‘There aren’t many notes,’ Mary told me, as she walked into the room. The flowers caught on her skirt, and tumbled on the floor. ‘I don’t think many of the people who left the flowers can read or write. Or perhaps they felt that nothing needed to be said. But there are one or two. They speak of her kindness, and her gentleness. They call her a saviour. And they are sorry that they could not protect her. All the flowers, Martha, all of them, they’re from people who live here. All of Whitechapel has given her flowers. Whitechapel loved her.’
I hope the Whitechapel Lady knew. I hope that somewhere in her sad and lonely life she knew she had a place, and was honoured and treasured and loved. I was so afraid she had not known. I looked around. They must have searched long and hard for these flowers. Some must have gone without a meal, or two, to pay for a bunch of peonies. Here and there I saw a bright yellow dandelion that must have pushed its way up through the cracks in the pavement. The sweet, soft, pure scent of them pushed away the stench of the blood. These flowers were a far better monument than any massive stone sarcophagus could have been. I knelt on the floor, took off my glove, and ran my fingers over the flowers, silently adding my sorrow for her loss. My shame that we could not save her, my anger that someone could have done this to her, my promise that he would pay.
I pushed aside the flowers, and then I saw the blood. Everywhere beneath the delicate petals was stained in dark, harsh blood. It had even splashed onto the walls. This room had seen something horrific. I looked up at Mary. She stood by the window, staring intently about the room, her face pale and set and hard as a statue.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I saw the blood too. It’s horrible.’
‘It’s insane,’ I replied, standing up. ‘This isn’t right.’
Mary looked at me, her eyes burning in anger. She had misunderstood.
‘No, I meant . . . this doesn’t fit!’ I explained quickly. ‘I presume we both believe that the man who drove her to this place is the same man who killed her? The same man we are hunting.’
Mary nodded mutely.
‘Then this does not fit,’ I repeated. ‘From what we have learnt, this has always been a man who prized control. He got his pleasure from controlling others and himself. He enjoyed being powerful in the background. He enjoyed being unsuspected, unseen. This,’ I knelt down and pushed aside the flowers again to reveal the ugly stain. It still felt slightly sticky to the touch, ‘is an utter lack of control. He doesn’t do this. He kills by proxy.’
‘He kills, though,’ Mary said, in a low, grating voice.
‘Not like this,’ I insisted. ‘I’m not saying he has never had blood on his hands. He probably did, I think perhaps he would want that experience, that feeling of another’s life in his hands, but I regret to say it would be some poor girl from the slums that no one would miss. It would be quiet, unnoticed. This – ’ I pushed aside more of the flowers. The stain had spread all over the floor, ‘ – this is screaming “look at me!”. There is no control here whatsoever. This is the very antithesis of all we know about him.’
‘You think she was killed by a different man?’ Mary asked, pushing her hair away from her forehead. I sat back on my heels and thought for a moment.
‘No,’ I said finally, shaking my head. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence that she should be so violated by two different men. Besides, think of him hurling Wiggins down the stairs.’
‘Probably not the first time he’s tried to get rid of a witness,’ Mary pointed out.
‘In broad daylight? In front of other potential witnesses? No, this and the attacks on Wiggins and Mr Shirley were impulsive acts. I think his control is slipping. I think his control is breaking down.’
Mary suddenly leaned forward and seized a pale pink rose from the flowers on the floor. She grasped it, squeezing it in her hands.
‘All those years,’ Mary whispered. ‘He kept himself under such a tight rein. No one knew him or saw him for what he was. He made himself seem so ordinary, but underneath he was still there. Still evil, still mad, still wrong. It must have been such a strain, keeping up that pretence all the time. Even in his darkest, vilest moments, he could never let it entirely slip. And now . . .’ She looked at me. The rose in her hand was torn to pieces. ‘Jekyll is taking over Hyde.’
I nodded. It was an apt analogy. I had seen the play, though not read the book. I remembered that horrific moment of transformation.
‘But why now?’ Mary demanded, letting the crushed remains of the rose fall between her fingers.
‘Something has changed,’ I speculated, still kneeling on the floor amongst the flowers. ‘Something is different, something new and uncontrollable has entered his life . . . oh.’ I suddenly realized what I meant. ‘Could it be us?’ I whispered. ‘We’re the something new!’
Mary blanched, looking round the room.
‘We caused this?’
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘He did this. He lost control. All we did was investigate, and we haven’t even done much of that, not really.’
‘We’re the new player in the game, as Sherlock would say,’ Mary said.
‘But we’re not that important!’ I insisted again. I had never been that important.
‘We’re uncontrollable by his usual methods,’ Mary said, striding round the room, her skirt disturbing the flowers and sending up wafts of fragrance. ‘We have no one who is likely to believe any lies he tells about us. We have no secrets – well, I have none beyond fabulous but lost Indian treasure and some stories about the mutiny. I presume you have no dark secrets?’
‘Not one,’ I said ruefully.
‘So here we are, two women – and he hates women – interfering in his life, and no way to control us. It must drive him insane.’
I shook my head. It didn’t make sense. I couldn’t see myself as anyone’s implacable enemy.
‘No, I don’t think it’s us,’ I disagreed. ‘There’s something else here, something, someone we’re not seeing. A different factor we know nothing about. If we’re that dangerous, why not just kill us?’
Mary laughed, a harsh shout of laughter.
‘Kill Sherlock Holmes’ housekeeper and Dr Watson’s wife? That would be a huge mistake!’
‘Maybe he doesn’t see us as his new opponent,’ I said. ‘Maybe he thinks his new enemy is Mr Holmes?’
Mary stopped pacing.
‘Perhaps. Although I’m not sure if I’d be relieved or insulted if that were true.’
I bent my head for a moment, looking at the flowers.
‘Well, we can ask him when we find him,’ I murmured. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mary glance at the book on the table. I knew she was imagining the Whitechapel Lady sitting here all alone, night after night, her life destroyed in so many ways by this
man. And then, just when she had found some measure of peace, he had destroyed it again, utterly this time. And perhaps, just perhaps, it was because of us.
‘He’ll get worse,’ Mary said quietly. ‘He’ll be like Jack the Ripper, and become more and more steeped in blood.’
‘Or until we stop him.’
‘No one stopped Jack.’
‘He is not Jack,’ I insisted. ‘I know he isn’t. Don’t ask why.’
‘But . . .’
‘No, Mary,’ I insisted. ‘I can’t tell you, not today.’ Perhaps in the future I would, but it wasn’t my story to tell her. A good housekeeper had to keep so many of her employer’s secrets. I would tell Mary one day. I couldn’t keep even that secret from her, but not on this day.
I slowly got up from my knees and walked over to the fireplace. The grate was cold now, but full of ashes. A great deal of paper had been burnt here. I leaned over to look. There was the tiniest scrap of white, just a corner of something left, right at the back.
When I turned, Mary was by the window. The harsh cold daylight cast deep shadows on her set white face. She stared at me, and I had never seen a look like that in her eyes before.
‘It’s not about finding him any more,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘It’s not even about stopping him. I want him punished, Martha. I want him to burn.’
We didn’t want to leave Whitechapel right away. To scurry away from the Whitechapel Lady’s home would have seemed like a betrayal. Instead we wandered through the narrow alleyways and courts, listening to people talk. Most of them mentioned her, and her kindness and her generosity, and her sensitivity and her deep need for privacy. They talked of how they had gone to her for help, and she had never turned them away, nor preached to them. But amongst the tributes to her were other whispers. Ripped. Cut. ’88. He’s back. Him. Jack. The Ripper. Ripper.
‘What did you take from the fireplace?’ Mary asked, her voice low. I handed her the scrap.
‘It fell down the back. Bits of paper often do when they are burnt. People always forget to look,’ I said. She turned it over in her hand.
‘A visiting card.’
‘Yes, and yes, I read the name on it.’
There had been just a corner of a name, just the four letters: lant.
‘Adam Ballant,’ Mary guessed.
‘Not necessarily,’ I warned her, but I too had jumped to the same conclusion. Mary stopped suddenly on the street, grasping my arm, and getting in the way of an old woman in grey, who swore fluently at her. Mary ignored her.
‘If you were hiding a pin, where would you put it?’ she asked.
‘I wouldn’t hide a pin, I’m always losing the blasted things,’ I told her.
‘The best place to hide a pin,’ Mary said softly, ‘is on a pin-cushion, amongst all the other pins.’
She turned and walked on, lost in her own thoughts, barely aware if I followed or not. I did not need her to explain. The best place to hide a blackmailer would be amongst his victims – and we had both felt that Adam Ballant did not quite fit. Too secretive and yet too eager to talk. And too skilled at evading a pursuer. I could see Mary was up to something, and I would lay a wager she was planning a visit to Adam Ballant.
Eventually we found ourselves on Whitechapel Road and hailed a cab. We sat in silence all the way back to Baker Street. I do not know how I looked, for Mary never glanced at me, but I recognized the set look of Mary’s features. I had seen Mr Holmes look like that, when someone vulnerable and helpless had been hurt. I had seen John look like that, too. I knew that look. It was vengeance.
It’s no surprise to anyone that Mr Holmes had a streak of darkness running through him. A man like that, who could think like that, with his strength and cunning, could so easily be tempted to take the law into his own hands, beyond detection into judgement and execution. But John had kept that side of Mr Holmes in check. And John, with his burning anger and his brief but sharp temper, could be checked by Mary.
But now here sat Mary, with the darkness etched onto her face. The same need to see revenge achieved, at any cost. Who would keep her safe? Who would stop the darkness claiming her?
I suppose that was supposed to be me. Yet when I thought of the flowers, I too wanted to see him burn.
When we arrived back at 221b, there was a large package waiting for Mr Holmes on the hall table. The address was printed, but I knew it came from Irene and contained the letters. I directed Billy to take it up right away.
Mary, exhausted, decided to go home. I set to cleaning the kitchen. I was in the middle of turning out a cupboard when Billy ran in and cried, ‘I’ve just shown Sir George Burnwell up to Mr Holmes!’
‘Really?’ I wiped my hands on a dry cloth and rolled my sleeves back down. ‘Billy, did Mr Holmes open that package he received this morning?’
‘Yes, he did,’ Billy assured me, ‘but he only had time to glance through it.’ I didn’t seem to need to tell Billy what was in it. Between what Wiggins told him, what he had overheard from Irene and Mary and me, and his own intelligence, he seemed to have worked it out. He stood on a kitchen chair and opened the vent, and silently we sat down at the still-damp table.
Mr Holmes must have asked Sir George to sit down, and assured him of John’s discretion. That was how these consultations always began. Of course John was there. Mr Holmes would barely see a client without him. I could imagine the scene clearly in my mind, Mr Holmes standing before the fireplace – where his face was in shadow and the light from the window shone directly onto his visitor’s face – surprising his visitor with an example of his perspicacity. John sat in a chair behind the visitor, taking notes in his small brown leather book. Sir George would have sat on the sofa, and behind him, on the table, would be the parcel containing his ledger and his letters.
I could hear Mr Holmes talking in that tight, clipped manner he has when he dislikes his visitors. However, he has never allowed his personal dislike of a client to stop him taking a case, and I was apprehensive. What would Mr Holmes say if he discovered the criminal in this case lived under his own roof ? I genuinely had no idea.
I listened as Sir George told Mr Holmes how he had returned home the previous Saturday evening, with a perfectly respectable companion he was not prepared to name. He had discovered three desperate ruffians in his study, had fought them off bravely, but they had managed to escape with some important papers, and burnt the rest.
‘Mr Holmes,’ Sir George said, in his suave voice, ‘it is vital I retrieve the papers these men took!’
Men. Well, that was lucky. He had seen only Irene clearly, as she cheekily waved goodbye to him, and she had been dressed as a man.
‘What exactly are these papers?’ Mr Holmes asked.
‘Private papers. The content is not important,’ Sir George insisted.
‘I say it is,’ Mr Holmes insisted in his turn. ‘If I do not know what these papers are, how can I tell to what use they have been put, or who is likely to have them? The truth, please, Sir George!’
It is difficult to lie to Mr Holmes’ face when he demands the truth. His eyes bore through you, to the very heart of you. Sir George, I imagine, swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
‘A book,’ Sir George said hoarsely. ‘Merely a notation of some expenses. And family letters. Vital only to me, worthless to anyone else. Utterly innocent, I assure you.’
‘I doubt that, Sir George,’ John said, and I could hear the distaste in his voice. ‘You have a certain reputation.’
I wonder how they knew? It occurred to me that perhaps some lady compromised by Sir George might have come to Mr Holmes for help before. Perhaps he already knew what he was dealing with.
‘Shall we speak the truth, Sir George?’ Mr Holmes said. ‘The ledger is no doubt some sort of “book of love” and the letters are from ladies you have seduced. You mourn their loss because no doubt you hoped to use them for profit at some point in the future.’
‘I am not a blackmailer!’ Sir George snapped.
‘No! I . . . I need those letters . . .’ Sir George insisted. I could hear the desperation in his voice. Why? He would acquire more letters, a new ledger, I have no doubt. Why did he need these so badly? If he only knew they were in that room, within his reach. If he only stretched his hand out to the table . . .
‘Who was your companion?’ Mr Holmes asked. ‘I mean the night you were robbed, not any other night.’
‘No one of any importance,’ Sir George said sullenly. I could tell he was regretting his decision to come here.
‘A woman?’
‘Yes, a woman, damn you!’
‘A society lady?’
‘No!’
‘Then who?’ Holmes insisted implacably.
‘A woman of the streets, not anyone of any importance,’ Sir George said reluctantly.
‘Did she know you had these letters?’ John asked. Sir George was silent, and I heard him shift on the sofa. Then he spoke, in a quieter, almost ashamed tone.
‘I was drunk. Very drunk. I may have boasted. It is a habit I have. Not a pretty one, I admit. I mentioned the letters, I think. Or . . . I’m not sure. She asked about them. She wanted to see how foolish these society women are. I don’t remember much,’ he admitted. ‘Normally I handle my drink a lot better.’
I should imagine the same thought crossed Mr Holmes’ and John’s mind as crossed mine: he had been drugged. No wonder he had barely been able to stop us, had not even been able to recognize us as women. She had slipped something into his drink.
I felt a certain degree of satisfaction that Sir George had been tricked.
‘She asked to see the letters?’ Mr Holmes said sharply. ‘You did not tell her about them first?’
‘Yes . . . no, I don’t know!’ Sir George cried in anguish. ‘No, she asked! I remember. I remember her name too,’ he said viciously. ‘Lillian Rose. That’s her name. I found her in Whitechapel!’
Whitechapel. All roads led there. Half the criminals in London hid themselves in the mish-mash of Whitechapel. Was that the final stop, or only a staging post?
The House at Baker Street Page 15