Mr. Valentine turned at the doorway and shouted, “Do not return to my school ever again!”
William Druitt closed the door on George Valentine and turned to Monty, smiling gently. “It is time to take our leave of this place, and these people. Your work is finished my son.”
“At last,” Monty said, gasping in relief. He felt his chest seize as he staggered toward his father, about to embrace him, when he stopped. Druitt blinked rapidly, realizing it was only his older brother. “Will? Why did you try and trick me?”
“What are you talking about, Monty?” Will said, lifting the brim of his hat.
Druitt snatched the medical bag from his brother and began cracking the latches. “How dare you play games with me, Will! I am not the little boy you knew in Dorset.”
“Of course I know that, Monty.” He watched Druitt shuffling things around inside the bag. “You must try and calm yourself, there is still much work we can do.”
Druitt whipped a blade from the bag and held it at Will’s throat, forcing him back against the wall. “Look at me, brother. What do you see?”
Will looked down at the knife. “Put the knife down, little brother. There is much that you do not understand. Let us find a quiet place to talk, and I shall make everything clear to you. Put the knife down at once, before you hurt someone.”
Druitt put his face close to Will’s. “I asked you a question. Answer me or I’ll chop your precious wife’s bosoms and feed her bits to your children. What do you see?”
“I see a beast.”
TWENTY EIGHT
Nearly all of the knowledge available to the known world was housed on Piccadilly Street at The Burlington House; an enormous mansion with steep archways and high-reaching spires, housing no fewer than seven of Her Majesty’s royal institutions of learning.
The Royal Academy, Geological Society, Royal Astronomical Society, Society of Antiquaries, Chemical Society, and Linnean Society, were all set within the enormous confines of Lord Burlington’s former residence. Deep within, located beneath a brass sign inscribed with the words: Nullius in Verba (“On The Words Of No One”), sat the entrance to the Royal Society of London for the Improvement of Natural Knowledge.
The Royal Society was founded in 1660, and since its inception had worked toward its goal of building an empire of learning that stretched across continents. One could only become a Fellow of the Royal Society by election, and elections were held on one day a year. Of all the eligible candidates, only forty-four fellows could be entered into their esteemed ranks. Charles Darwin had been a member of the Royal Society, and after him, his son Francis, and their half-cousin, Francis Galton.
Dr. Henry Faulds was not a member. In fact, he was never even nominated.
As Constable Lamb led the old man toward the “Nullius in Verba” sign, the old man grumbled, “This is an insult! Those bastards are making me come here so they you can lord their status over me. Well, it will not work! I will sod off back to Stoke-on-Trent if they even try it!”
“I’m sure no one is going to insult you, Dr. Faulds. Everyone appreciates you making the long journey here,” Lamb said as he knocked on the door.
Francis Darwin opened the door and thrust his hand out toward Dr. Faulds. “It is the Royal Society’s great privilege to have you visit us, sir.”
“Piss off!” Faulds said. “And don’t try lording any of this Society bollocks over me either.”
“No one is lording anything over anyone, Henry,” a second man reassured as he came up to stand behind Darwin. “Just come in and sit down.”
“Galton…” Faulds whispered. “I did not think you’d have the courage to show up.”
“It is my understanding that Sherlock Holmes has requested our aid in catching this monster loose in Whitechapel. I think it is our obligation as men of science to assist as we can.”
“You look like your father, Mr. Darwin. How I used to admire him,” Faulds said. “Tell me, was the Theory of Evolution his or was it simply the result of reading a letter some other scientist happened to send him?”
“Gentlemen,” Constable Lamb tapped the table with his finger. “That’s quite enough of this, now. I have no clue what exactly you are all on about, but time is of the essence, right? All of Scotland Yard is—”
“Screw Scotland Yard! When I tried to explain all of this to that bastard Warren, he stared at me like I had three heads and a forked tongue.”
“Commissioner Warren resigned several weeks ago,” Galton sighed. “Perhaps news of it did not reach you all the way down in Fenton where you practice now, hmm? Bustling hub of activity that it is.”
“You dirty bastard!” Faulds hissed, reaching over the table for Galton.
Constable Lamb grabbed Faulds and yanked him back into his chair. “That is quite enough out of both of you. One more word and I’m going to start opening up some skulls, get me?” Lamb reached into his pocket and pulled out the silk handkerchief with the piece of glass inside, showing it to them. “Sherlock Holmes said this little piece of glass has a finger mark left by the man killing all the bunters in Whitechapel and he believes that you bunch of squeeze crabs are the only lot who can figure it out. Now sit down and start bloody figuring it out!”
~ * * * ~
Only one asylum for the criminally insane existed in all of England, and it was located a little more than thirty miles away from London. Sherlock Holmes entered the Broadmoor Asylum and felt stale air escape as he pulled on the cold iron handle, prying open the massive wooden door. The air carried the scent of sickness.
Broadmoor opened in 1863, intended only to house the ninety-five female lunatics then under the forced care of Her Majesty. One year later, an additional wing was added onto the building for two hundred male inmates. The asylum sat on two hundred and ninety square acres in the village of Crowthorne at the edge of the Berkshire moors, surrounded by enormous stone walls and a thick iron gate.
Many of the most famous maniacs in England called it home. There was Roderick Maclean, who fired a gun at Queen Victoria at Windsor Station in 1882. Richard Dadd had been a famous painter prior to murdering his father, and continued to paint prolifically during his many years in captivity. Dr. William Chester Minor, an American who relocated to London and wound up killing a furnace-stoker, achieved a minor bit of celebrity upon taking up the duties of acquiring quotations and citations for the much-anticipated First Oxford English Dictionary from the confines of the Asylum.
An older man in a clean white laboratory coat approached Holmes. “Good day, Mr. Holmes.”
“Thank you for meeting with me, Dr. Orange.”
“I admit that your telegram intrigued me. Of course, the series of crimes you mentioned are none other than the Ripper killings, correct?”
“Indeed they are, Dr. Orange.”
“And you think the Ripper may be an escapee or former patient, hmm? Ever since those dreadful killings began, I have been waiting for some policeman to come sniffing around Broadmoor.”
“You sound skeptical, doctor. Surely you see the logic in that theory.”
“Surely I do not, Mr. Holmes. The men and women confined to Broadmoor are ill, sir. They are capable of horrific crimes of the most violent nature, and to that I make no argument, but they have always been localized incidents brought on by a specific series of emotional events. The Ripper killings appear to be something else altogether.”
“And what are the Ripper killings in your opinion, sir?”
“A cultural phenomenon, Mr. Holmes. A new type of evil that has been visited upon us all and will not go away any time soon.”
Holmes paused for a moment, weighing his words. “Dr. Orange, I am not quite certain that I follow you. The Ripper is just a man. Just another criminal.”
“Whoever is doing these killings is not the only one responsible for the true horror taking place in Whitechapel. After you arrest him and throw him into Broadmoor, he’ll be just another of the babbling lunatics roaming these halls. But other
s will follow him. Pandora’s Box has been opened, Mr. Holmes, and The Ripper is only the beginning.”
“I would love to stand here and debate this with you, Dr. Orange, I truly would, but I am afraid it will have to wait. For now, please indulge me with a list of all the prisoners who have been released from your facility in the past two years.”
Dr. Orange shook his head, “I am afraid I cannot help you, Mr. Holmes. All of our lunatics are confined to Broadmoor by the court because they are not capable of understanding the ramifications of their actions. We go strictly by the McNaughton Rules. If anyone were ever found to be competent, they would be returned to a traditional prison to serve whatever sentence was seen fit. And, between you and me, that has yet to ever happen.”
“What of escapees?” Holmes said.
“There has only been one this year, a man named James Kelly. Sad soul, really. Murdered his wife five years ago and spent every night here crying himself to sleep, begging her to forgive him,” Dr. Orange said. “It is most certainly not Mr. Kelly.”
Holmes took a deep breath. “Doctor, I am not implying that someone under your charge could be responsible for the murders in Whitechapel. I am simply trying to stop the person responsible. Is there any other suggestion you might provide?”
Dr. Orange thought for a moment. “A relative, perhaps? There is some research that insanity can be passed on through heredity. I have heard of a young, ambitious doctor named Steward at the Brook Asylum in Clapton. You may want to pay him a visit.”
“Thank you Dr. Orange.”
Orange watched Holmes go to the large doors and press them open. “Close them tightly when you leave, Mr. Holmes. It has come to the point where I am more afraid of the world outside those doors than of the few lunatics confined within.”
TWENTY NINE
“Almost at Shoreditch Mortuary, Inspector,” the carman said.
Lestrade pulled the cloth away from his neck, frowning at the blood on it. The cuts left by his razor had finally stopped bleeding. He stuffed the rag into his pocket and rubbed the raw skin on his chin and throat. He smelled the cuffs of his shirt several times, reveling in the familiar scent of Carrie’s favorite washing soap. She’d put on a good show in front of the children, Lestrade thought.
“Why do you have to leave?” Little Gerard said as he was told them goodbye.
“Your father is going to put an end to someone very evil,” Carrie said. “All of us should be very proud of him.”
“Be careful, Father,” Julliette said.
Lestrade kissed his daughter on the nose, “I will, princess.”
“Are you going to kill the bad man?” Little Gerard asked.
“No, of course not,” Lestrade replied. “We are going to bring him to justice. It is not our job to go around killing people, son.”
Unless they really deserve it, Lestrade thought now, thinking of Mary Jane Kelly’s body as he’d found it. A team of journalists surrounded the front door to the mortuary. As the carman brought the carriage to a stop, he barked at them all to back off and let Lestrade through. It was Mary Jane Kelly’s last few hours above the earth, and the press wanted to capture in every detail the events of her body being driven to Walthamstow Catholic Cemetery. Several journalists recognized Lestrade and cried out his name, peppering him with questions about the investigation. He ignored the men and their queries and signaled to the constables guarding the front door to push everyone back enough to let him in.
The mortuary’s greeting room was silent and dark. The visiting room was empty save for the open coffin of Mary Jane Kelly and a well-dressed man sitting in the pew closest to it. Lestrade took off his hat and walked up to the coffin. He was nervous about what he would see there, but Kelly’s entire face and neck were covered in white bandages. Someone had paid for her to be buried in an expensive gown. Somehow, the undertaker had managed to fill the voids of her body’s empty cavities so that her corpse appeared whole. Lestrade could not help picturing her on her bed at Thirteen Miller’s Court and his hands started to shake. He turned to the man sitting near him, offered his hand and said, “Gerard Lestrade.”
The man looked at him for a moment, and clasped his hand tightly, “Bond. Thomas Bond.”
“The Division A police surgeon?” Lestrade asked. “You did the post-mortem on her. I read your report.”
Bond just stared at the coffin. “I keep seeing it over and over again, Inspector. I’ve been a police surgeon for twenty years and I served in the military before that. I have seen death and destruction in many forms, but this was something completely different. The man that killed her… I’d studied the medical notes from his previous murders, and then the torso they found out in Whitehall. I fancied myself some sort of expert. Can you imagine that? When I went to Thirteen Miller’s Court, I realized how little I knew.”
“Not quite the same, seeing them in person,” Lestrade said.
“No, not quite the same. He wanted us to find her like that, I think. He wants us to know just how much of a monster he is, if only to terrify us.”
“You are probably right. Who paid for the coffin and the dress? Was it you?” Lestrade said.
“I thought she deserved at least that little bit of dignity.” Bond unscrewed the cap from a silver flask and took a long drink from it. He wiped his mouth and held the bottle out toward Lestrade. “Bit of Gordon’s, Inspector?”
“No thank you, Dr. Bond. I must be going. It really is a lovely dress. That was most kind of you.”
“What are you doing here, anyway? Still looking for clues?”
“No. I just wanted to see her and let her know that I did not forget my promise. We will hunt this bastard across the earth if needed. He will not kill again.”
“God help you, Inspector,” Dr. Bond said, lifting his flask to his lips. “God bless you, but God help you.”
~ * * * ~
Sherlock Holmes entered the Brooke Asylum, walking toward the desk nurse. “Good afternoon, madam. Is there a Dr. Steward present in this facility?”
The nurse checked her chart. “He is down the hall to the right with patients in the east wing. Just follow the sound of screaming.”
“Thank you, I think,” Holmes said, tipping his hat at her. He travelled the corridor quickly, hearing a great din of screaming and yelling from the room ahead. He entered a large community room crammed with patients and staff members. Some of the patients wore restraints, and some sat quietly playing card games. Others fought with the staff, trying to rip the chairs and tables from the floor to fling them, but they were bolted firmly to the ground. A few of them copulated in a corner together, taking turns climbing on one another’s backs like animals. Holmes saw a man in a white coat peering at notes on a clipboard and approached him. “Are you Dr. Steward?”
“Yes I am. May I help you?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. Dr. Orange of Broadmoor recommended I meet with you. It is about the killings in Whitechapel.”
“Really? Fascinating!” Dr. Steward said. “What would you like to know?”
Holmes explained his understanding of “Inherited Insanity” and how it might pertain to the research Dr. Steward was conducting, but before he finished, the doctor was frowning and shaking his head. “All of our patients are accounted for, and I have never seen one who fits your criteria, Mr. Holmes. That being said, I do think it is highly possible that your suspect would be related to one of our inmates.”
“What makes you say that, Doctor?”
“I have been doing a fair amount of research into the heredity of mental aberration. Several of my patients exhibit the same symptoms of their ancestors, and I am convinced that they inherit these traits in the same way that we do others. Are you familiar with the writings of Charles Darwin, by any chance?”
Holmes nodded, following Dr. Steward as he looked over his patients, making notes on his charts. He checked off a series of blocks for each, then pointed ahead to an older woman sitting by herself at a table, staring blank
ly. “Darwin teaches us that everything comes from heredity. The youngest of the species is taught by its parents, over and over, until the behavior is ingrained in us biologically. If someone possessed a homicidal impulse, there is a strong chance that it could be passed on to one of their children.”
“Indeed?” Holmes said. “So, have you had any inmates who might be capable of a particularly gruesome murder?”
“No.”
“Of course not.” Holmes checked his pocket watch. “Thank you for your time, Doctor. I must be going. There is much to be done. Good day—”
“You!” an old woman hissed at Holmes from across the room. “I know you,” she said. She lifted a crooked finger at Holmes’s face. “I know you, for I saw you in my dreams. You are coming for him, but you will be struck down by his blade!”
“What now?” Dr. Steward said, looking over his shoulder. “Calm down, Mrs. Druitt.”
Ann Druitt moved slowly, dragging her slippers on the tile floor. She laughed, “You cannot stop us. Not you, not the simpleton, and not his little trollop. The streets will be washed clean by your blood.”
Dr. Steward lifted his arm to keep Ann from advancing any further. “Just days ago she was a complete invalid, but as of late she’s been babbling nonstop about the killings.”
“He grows stronger than ever feasting on each little piggy’s chitterlings,” she hissed, digging her fingernails into Steward’s arm, trying to pry his fingers away.
“Who does?” Holmes said. Ann spat directly into Holmes’s face. A gob of it ran down his cheek and he wiped it away and said calmly, “Who is growing stronger?”
“You will not live to see the dawn, Sherlock Holmes.” Her voice was no longer that of an old woman but now twisted into something strange and sinister. “He will destroy you.”
“You know my name,” Holmes said. “How peculiar. Perhaps you are right as well about my imminent demise, but if this person is expecting me, it would be most rude of me not to arrive in a prompt fashion. Who is it?”
Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (Gentlemen's Edition) Page 24