Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (Gentlemen's Edition)

by Bernard Schaffer

  “We are nothing if not discreet, Inspector. It is a cornerstone of our reputation,” I reminded him. “Why else would so many royals and socialites come to us for help when they could just go to the police?”

  Holmes chuckled slightly. I do not think that Lestrade noticed.

  “There have been four killings in Whitechapel by a subject calling himself ‘Jack the Ripper.’ I am discounting the other murders because they do not fit in with these four. All of his victims had their throats cut. All have had some sort of injury to their abdomens. In all of the killings, except for the third, wherein The Ripper was interrupted in the middle of his deed, he is progressively mutilating them worse than he did before.

  “Polly Nichols’s was a forty-three year old prostitute. Jack killed her on Friday, August Thirty First, between three-fifteen a.m. and three forty-five a.m. He cut her throat, and we found several deep cuts on her abdomen.

  “Annie Chapman was a forty-seven year old prostitute. Jack killed her on Saturday, September Eighth, after five thirty a.m. He cut her throat and ripped her belly completely open. He took Chapman’s uterus.

  “Elizabeth Stride was a forty-four year old prostitute. She was killed Sunday, September Thirtieth, around one a.m. Her throat was cut, but nothing else appeared damaged. I believe the killer was spooked and ran off before he could finish his business.

  “Less than an hour later, the body of Catherine Eddowes was found only a few blocks away. Eddowes was a forty-six year old prostitute. Her throat was cut. Her belly was ripped open. Both her uterus and kidney were taken. In addition, there were many more injuries inflicted, including her face.”

  Lestrade looked from me to Holmes, making sure that we were following him. “Do you see? It is almost as if he is learning from each one, quite the same as you or I would, Holmes. Say, for instance, we go out on our first investigation and realize that we forgot to bring a candle in case our lantern went out. Next time we bring it. Perhaps we forget to bring a bag to put evidence into. The next time we remember. Jack the Ripper is getting better at his trade and learning as he goes on. Every killing brings him closer to something I cannot understand, but I hope that you might.”

  Holmes began laughing softly and murmured the word, “Monkeys.”

  “Pardon?” Lestrade said.

  “Ignore him,” I said, “he is not well, Inspector. Please continue, I am utterly fascinated.”

  Lestrade looked at Holmes, who was still laughing. He ignored him and said, “Those are the things that we know for certain, but because it is so little, we are awash in meaningless theories. We have detectives following up leads suspecting the Freemasons, the royal family, a prominent artist running around telling people he is the killer, and even the author of ALICE IN WONDERLAND. We have hundreds of quacks, derelicts, and publicity seekers who want to be arrested for the murders just to see their names in print.”

  “Jabbering, drooling monkeys!”

  Lestrade stood to his feet, “Now look here, Holmes, what the hell do you mean by that? I came here as a sign of my respect for your investigative abilities to discuss this case with you. Man to man. Professional to professional.”

  “We cannot discuss it ‘man to man’ because you are not a man,” Holmes shouted. “You are a monkey! All of you are. Collectively, you stand as much chance of catching this killer as a group of thick-jawed simians in a rail-yard have of assembling a steam engine. You have been given the tools, the plans, and the materials, but you do not possess the simple mental capacity. Jack the Ripper has stared you in the face and found you lacking, my dear Inspector. Can you not at least see that?”

  “Holmes! That is quite enough!” I said. “I humbly apologize, Inspector Lestrade. I do not know what has come over him but we would be glad to assist you. Just give me a little while to talk it over with him. Would you mind coming to see us tomorrow?”

  “Do not fill him up with false hope, Watson,” Holmes said. “The Ripper is beyond you, Lestrade. He is a new thing in an old world. At least have the decency to know when you are outclassed, Inspector. When you have been made obsolete.”

  Lestrade was silent after that and took a deep breath and sat back down. “All right then. I am a monkey. I am outclassed. Fine. I agree to any insult you care to offer. Dispense with any ridicule you see fit, man, I only ask you to help us.”

  Holmes’s face twisted in disgust and he said, “Get out of my sight. Go back to your masters at Scotland Yard and tell them they cannot come begging me to help after so many years of denying my superior talents. How many times have I had to sit back and watch you lot take credit for my achievements, while you publicly mocked me? While you refused to cooperate with me? Now, when the bodies are piling up, you come to my boot heel like the whimpering fools that you are, but I will not be used.”

  Lestrade lowered his head and whispered, “No one sent me, Holmes. I would be fired if they even knew I was here. It was my own idea, to ask you as one man to the next, to save this city. I see I was mistaken. Good night then.”

  After the Inspector left, I shut the door behind him and listened to him walk slowly down the steps. I turned to Holmes and tried to steady my trembling jaw. “How could you be so monstrous! That man begged you for help and you refused him!”

  Holmes’s eyes shined with cruelty. “Fill me up one syringe that contains a seven percent mixture of cocaine and morphine and perhaps I shall consider helping him.”

  “Curse you!” I shouted. I grabbed my coat and threw the door open, shouting, “Inspector! Wait!”

  I found Lestrade on Baker Street but he turned away from me, taking a moment to wipe his nose and eyes. “What the hell do you want?” he sniffled. “Was he making some sort of a sick joke?”

  “No,” I said breathlessly. “I have no idea what he was saying. He is out of his mind.”

  “To hell with him then! To hell with all of you and your fancy homes and posh lives.”

  “I want to offer you my full and complete services!” I said.

  “For what?”

  “Don’t you see? I have been with Holmes for years! I have seen his methods first-hand. I have worked at his side. Let me come with you and together we can stop this fiend!”

  Lestrade moved close to me, leaning down to look me in the eye. “Listen to me very carefully, Doctor Watson. Just because I came and asked Holmes for help does not mean that I want any bloody fool with an opinion to interfere, do you understand? You think I am some sort of buffoon who needs the help of every amateur in London. Is that it?”

  “But I only—”

  “If you want to help me truly, then go back inside and convince Holmes to get off of his stinking arse and help me,” Lestrade stormed down the street. “Take him to see a doctor, or something.”

  “But, he has one…” I stood in the street, watching him vanish into the white fumes coming up from the sewage grates. As I turned, Irene Adler was watching me from the entrance to 221 B. “What the hell are you doing here? Go away. You do not want to see him right now.”

  “I did not tell you the whole truth at the Forrester House, Dr. Watson,” Irene said. “Annie Chapman was a former acquaintance of mine. The Ripper cut her open and left her in the dirt behind Hanbury Street.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, Miss Adler, but I really must be going.”

  She looked up the steps toward our apartment. “Did Holmes really refuse to help the Inspector?”

  “Yes,” I said, lowering my head.

  “And the policeman refused your offer of assistance?”

  “Yes. Apparently my time with Holmes has qualified me to be little more than his nursemaid, as I am not even given the respect of being his physician!”

  “It would seem to me that we are left with only one solution, dear doctor.”

  “And what might that be, Miss Adler?”

  “I think you and I should hunt that murderous bastard down together.”

  I stared at her for a moment. “You know, I have had quite enough
with people making a fool of me tonight. Goodnight, Miss Adler.”

  “Why is that so hard to imagine, Doctor?”

  “You and me? An opera singer and a physician out there hunting the worst murderer in the city’s history? Are you daft?”

  Irene shook her head, staring at me with great pity. “It is little wonder that no one respects you, Watson.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Have you become so accustomed to being Holmes’s lapdog that you have forgotten what it means to stand on your own two feet? I saw you with that woman at the Forrester’s. Is she your fiancé? It looked to me like she might just be tolerating you until a real man comes along.”

  “That is enough, Miss Adler. How dare you speak of things that you know nothing about?”

  “I know that women are being killed and the two most capable men in all of London sit in their apartment, afraid to face him. I am staying at the Great Eastern on Liverpool Street. Call on me if your master changes his mind. Run along, John! That’s a good dog.”

  I spun around to confront her, but she was already gone. I stormed back up the steps, slamming the door behind me. “Confound that woman, confound Lestrade, and confound you most of all!” I shouted. “This is all your fault, Holmes!”

  Holmes’s only response was to smile, close his eyes and turn toward the fire. He was soon slumbering peacefully.

  FIFTEEN

  I left Baker Street early the next morning, passing Holmes as he snored in his chair. I decided that a mug of hot coffee and a sweet roll from the corner market would suit me well. The coffee was bitter and strong, but helped to clear the fog of my thoughts left after a long night spent shifting about my bed. Over and over, I muttered the quick retort that I wish had left Irene Adler humbled and impressed; the bold statement that convinced Inspector Lestrade that I was worthy of his respect. As for Holmes, I had nothing but words that stung.

  I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me to the Forrester estate. Upon arriving, I walked up the steps and knocked loudly on the door. The servant who opened it greeted me politely and asked me to wait for Mrs. Forrester. She came down the stairs and looked at me with a strange expression. “Doctor Watson…What an unexpected surprise.”

  “Good morning Mrs. Forrester. I would like to speak with Mary please.”

  “I am not certain that she wants to.”

  I handed my hat and coat to the servant and bowed slightly to Mrs. Forrester, “She will, and she does. I give you my word that I will not cause a scene. If she tells me to leave, I will abide by her wishes and never return. I have something important to tell her, though.”

  Mrs. Forrester sighed and said, “She is in the backyard walking the path.” The servant led me through the house toward the rear. I looked out into the yard, where dozens of trees towered over the house, raining leaves in every hue of gold, red, and brown. I walked down the rear steps, into the woods and followed the path. “Hello Mary,” I said

  “Oh, so you’ve finally remembered me? But more importantly, how is Mr. Holmes? Feeling better? I understand there is nothing on earth quite so important as him, so let us discuss it straight away.”

  “Forget him. I came to talk about us.” I pointed into the woods. “Can we walk along this path? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the foliage look so beautiful.”

  “So you came to admire the trees? I believe Westminster has its fair share. Perhaps you should dash back to Baker Street and ask Mr. Holmes what type of tree he prefers.”

  I stopped her and wrapped both my hands around hers. “I understand you are angry with me, but I must ask you to be silent for a moment and hear me out. Is that all right?”

  She said that it was. I cleared my throat and said, “When I met Holmes I was fresh out of the army and recovering from a wound which I thought might put an end to my surgical career. For whatever doubts you or anyone else has about me, I have been on the battlefield and witnessed dear friends torn apart by mortar fire. I held their bodies in place, and struggled to save them even as death tried dragging their souls from my hands. Some are still here to this day because of my actions. Some are not, but at least I tried. You see, Mary, I am a doctor. I help people in need. I may never be a physician for the royal family, or be counted as a member of your high-society, but at the end of the day, I will have assisted those who needed it. I took an oath, and it is who I am.

  “The reason I stayed with Holmes all this time is that it seemed to me that we were genuinely helping those who had nowhere else to turn. It is true that Holmes gets most of the credit and the world sees me as little more than his assistant. Even the woman I love regards me as his manservant.”

  “John, I did not mean that,” Mary said.

  “Let me finish, please.” I looked at her carefully. “One of my decisions is that, while it does not matter what most people think, there are exceptions to that rule. It matters what I think of myself, and as of late, I have not been thinking very highly of the man that I am. Truthfully, neither have you. That is what I came to tell you. I have something I must do, Mary. One last thing that I owe to myself before I can come to you and be the man you deserve.”

  “But I love you as you are,” she said. Tears began to well up in her eyes. “Why can you not see that?”

  “I know you love me. But I need you to respect me as well. For that, I must respect myself, and there is only one way to do that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There is a man killing women in our city, Mary. The city where we live. Where my children will someday live. The police are baffled, the newspapers are stoking the fires, and our greatest chance at putting an end to the crimes is busy rotting away on Baker Street. Someone has to do something, and I suppose that leaves it up to me.”

  “But how can you stop him? You mustn’t be foolish. How would you even find him? What if you get hurt?”

  I kissed her delicately on the tip of her nose, “Relax, my love. You have nothing to fear. Do you really think I would dash off to Whitechapel without having the perfect plan?”

  ~ * * * ~

  I entered the social room of the Great Eastern Hotel and spotted Irene Adler bent over one of a dozen newspapers scattered across her table. She was making notes on them, drawing connecting lines between multiple sections and circling them. “Miss Adler,” I said, walking up to her table and setting down my hat. “I have come to join the fight. I am determined that you and I are going to find this rotter and save London. Now, please tell me you have some sort of plan.”

  Irene lowered her paper, “Did you know they found a woman’s leg in Guidlford? It had been boiled, like an Easter ham! They are bringing it to London to compare it to the torso.”

  “Torso?”

  She paged through her notes quickly, “The torso! On October second, a torso was found in a vault inside the very building they are clearing out for New Scotland Yard! Can you imagine that? Body parts popping up all over the place, and now they find a torso at the new police headquarters?”

  “Most unusual. Now, your plan?”

  “It all connects!” Irene said, going back to the notated pages of circles. “Somehow there is a thread of continuity to all of this madness and if we only look hard enough, we shall find it! Almost like a grand drama playing out before us. There are twists and turns, but ultimately, they all play out in one narrative theme.”

  “Oh God,” I groaned, lowering my head into my hand. “You have no plan whatsoever.”

  “Of course I do. We are going to go into Whitechapel to solve the murder!”

  “Just like that, eh? Scotland Yard, the City Police, and all the journalists in London are scouring Whitechapel for Jack the Ripper, but somehow you and I are just going to march in there and sniff him out?” I stood up, “It is plain to me that this is a waste of time. Good day, Miss Adler.”

  “Wait, Dr. Watson,” she said, grabbing my arm. “I did not mean to sound flippant about it. Perhaps it was my optimism speaking. I am reli
eved to have you join me in this quest.”

  “I would not be. I have been through complicated investigations on many occasions, and I can tell you that a majority of time was spent gathering facts, assessing all the scenarios, then ruling out the impossible. More often than not, though, our success came down to an astounding act of observation and deduction by Holmes.”

  Irene frowned, “The problem in this case is that no one seems to be quite sure what the facts truly are. We seem to be as awash in theories and suspects as we are in dead bodies.”

  “That may not be necessarily true,” I said. “When Inspector Lestrade came to see us the other night he said that the only thing he is quite certain of are that four women have been killed by The Ripper. He warned us not to pay any mind to all of the other information.”

  “But the torso? Perhaps it is a clue,” Irene said. “Perhaps the killer is trying to send a message to the police, and we should focus on that immediate vicinity for his location! After all, how far can a man carry a woman’s torso around?”

  “Yes, perhaps it has something to do with the murders. Or, perhaps not. Holmes would take it in as information, but not focus on it unless need be. The key is to stay focused on the facts at hand and not get distracted by all the endless possibilities. We’ll be chasing Jewish slipper-makers and Freemasons for centuries if we go about it that way.”

  “So what do you propose, dear Doctor?”

  I took a deep breath, looking up and down the street. “I can hear Holmes telling me, ‘I use the unique gifts which the creator has seen fit to bestow upon me in this unique line for work, in which I alone am employed. There is a reason I am the only Consulting Detective in existence, Watson.’ Er, something like that.”

  “That was well done,” Irene said. “You sounded rather like him.”