by Lyndsay Faye
“Mr. Holmes,” he said, a smile briefly quickening his features, “I’ve brought respects from your friends at the Yard.”
“Convey them my thanks, if you would. Have a seat, and regale the infirmatory with tales of the latest victims.”
“Well,” Lestrade declared, drawing out his official notebook, “we do at least know who they are. Though that does us no positive good at all. First victim of the evening was one Elizabeth Stride, a widow who may or may not have had children.”
I nodded. “The unhappy woman dressed all in black. By chance, we caught a glimpse of her in the neighbourhood just before she was killed.”
“Did you?” Lestrade responded eagerly. “Who was she with?”
I had already shrugged my shoulders in apology for my imperfect memory when Holmes replied, “A brewer who resides in Norwood with his domineering mother and has absolutely no bearing upon the matter at hand.”
“Ah. In any case, her habitual mourning was supposedly for her husband and children, all of whom she claims died in the Princess Alice steamship collision, but we have records stating her husband, John Thomas Stride, died from heart disease in the Poplar Union Workhouse; she must have meant to elicit more charity by it. She was born in Sweden, according to her local Swedish Church clergy, who tell us she was a wreck of a woman and lucky to have lived so long. We’ve also interviewed her live-in man, Michael Kidney. He apparently used to padlock her indoors.”
“Charming. Well, it explains the duplicate key.”
“As for the other poor creature,” continued Lestrade with a shudder, “her name was Catherine Eddowes, and she had three children by a man named Thomas Conway of the Eighteenth Royal Irish. No suggestion they were ever married. Just wandered from place to place hawking gallows ballads. She lost touch with him and the children after she took to drink, and had recently returned from hop picking with her man when she was killed. Name of John Kelly—took us a mite longer to find him than we would have liked, but they were sleeping separate on the night of the murder. Hadn’t the money for a double bed.”
“Lestrade, does any evidence lead you to believe that Eddowes and Stride, or Nichols and Chapman, or any combination of the victims accrued thus far were known to each other?”
The inspector shook his head. “Seemed an idea worth having to me as well, Mr. Holmes—they all may have been members of some heathen cult, killed for betraying the society, that sort of trash. Better still, that they’d all an old flame in common. Nothing of the sort has turned up. They may have spoken to each other, but they were none of them friends.”
“Then I am very much afraid I may be right,” Holmes murmured.
“Right about what, Mr. Holmes?”
“I must iron out my theory a bit more, Lestrade, and then you can be sure to learn of it. Have you any leads in your own investigation?”
“Well, Mr. Holmes, the truth is, there are some at the Yard who think we do have a lead,” Lestrade admitted.
“You’re of the opinion they are mistaken, then?” my friend suggested knowingly.
“Well, I am. Mind you, it’s not many of the inspectors, but they’re a damn sight louder than they ought to be.”
“You have my full attention.”
“Bearing in mind, Mr. Holmes, in my opinion, this line of questioning is the worst sort of wild goose chase.”
“So this fruitless lead is emphatically not one that you espouse?” the detective prodded with uncharacteristic good humour. “Perhaps your firsthand experience of the case sets you against it. Or perhaps even your own special knowledge of the suspect.”
“Well, I don’t intend to waste my time on it, that I’ll swear to. So have Gregson, Jones, Wickliff, Lanner, Hawes…”
“I should be delighted to look into the matter in your stead,” my friend offered.
“I don’t intend to squander your energies, Mr. Holmes.”
“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “I suspect I could confine my inquiries to this very room.”
Lestrade looked as if our carpet had been pulled out from under him, but he soon rallied and clenched his fists in frustration. “Confound it all, I’m that ashamed to tell you, but you’ve brought it on yourself, haven’t you?” cried the exhausted inspector. “All this ‘you will find the gun in the third stable on the left,’ and ‘the letter was posted by a man in a wideawake hat.’ Knowing things you shouldn’t, appearing magically at crime scenes! Bennett was in my office this morning and said it’s a miracle this hasn’t happened before.”
“Ha! You do suspect me, then! This really is most gratifying.”
“Mr. Holmes, I assure you—”
“No, please, I shall just sketch the outline of this little theory for the sake of argument,” announced Holmes with an air of exaggerated deliberation. “So, to retrace my own steps, the night of Bank Holiday, I stabbed Martha Tabram thirty-nine times in a mad frenzy. Dr. Watson may assert that I passed a quiet evening restringing the bow for my fiddle, but—”
“I never said—”
“When you knocked me up the morning after the Nichols killing, did I betray myself with any suspicious behaviour?”
“Mr. Holmes—”
“I am just working out how I managed to kill Elizabeth Stride moments before I discovered her body,” he continued ruthlessly. “But if the Doctor lied about my activities the night of Bank Holiday, why should he not do so again? I really must apologize to you, my dear Watson, for ever having asked you to maintain this vile charade. After killing Stride, I dashed off to the City to slay Eddowes, then returned to the scene of my earlier crime covered in her blood. What could be simpler?”
“Now, see here,” cried the red-faced inspector. “I’ve not come here in person to present you with all the evidence we’ve gathered because I think you’ve anything to do with the matter! Your character was never even questioned before that wretched article turned everything on end yesterday. We’ve been hung out to dry in the press, and there’s one or two who had a dark laugh that you’d been put to it as well. Soon enough, some of our number started asking awkward questions about the article’s contents, and there you are.”
“Men have been hanged for less, that I’ll grant you.”
Lestrade calmed somewhat when he saw that Holmes was more amused than outraged. “Very good, then, if I could just take your statement back with me to the Yard, we’ll avert some unpleasantness. Just the bit before I arrived, if you please.”
“Dr. Watson and I happened upon a woman who appeared only very recently to have died. We commenced a search for the culprit and all too quickly found him.”
“I see,” said the inspector, jotting down notes. “Time?”
“Close upon one in the morning.”
“There was a constable we encountered who was privy to the whole story,” I interjected. “Constable Lamb, I believe.”
“Yes, well,” replied Lestrade sheepishly, “we have his report. But as he arrived after Mr. Holmes disappeared, I’ve volunteered to get the story from your own lips. I turned up soon after you came back, Mr. Holmes, and saw you enter the cab. You proceeded directly to London Hospital?”
“No, I returned here.”
The inspector looked crestfallen. “Did you?”
“What difference can it make?”
“Oh, none, none. Save that…well, a particularly idiotic suggestion was made that once you departed in the cab, Mr. Holmes, you wrote the chalked lines in Goulston Street.”
Holmes and I must have looked as stunned as we felt, for the inspector hastened to assure us, “The timing of such a caper would be extremely difficult, but you see how I am obliged to set the record straight.”
“The handwriting was as unlike Holmes’s as I can possibly imagine,” said I, growing angry in spite of myself.
“I know that, don’t I? I saw it. But as you’ll recall, Doctor, there’s nothing left for a comparative sample. And taken in conjunction with the equally wild idea that the blood was not his own…”
“Or have a look for yourself,” Holmes added merrily. “Watson?
Have you any medical objection?” Throwing his tie to the ground, he undid the first two buttons of his shirtfront.
“Heavens no, no, thank you, I have quite enough material,” said the inspector in an agony of professional embarrassment.
“Good evening, then, Lestrade. A pleasure to see you,” tossed Holmes over his shoulder as he strode toward his room.
“There is just one more thing, Mr. Holmes! Gregson and Lanner wanted me to tell you that it may be best not to be seen in Whitechapel for some short time—until after all this ugliness is cleared up.”
“They are far more likely to encounter me in Whitechapel with greater and greater frequency, until such time as one or all of us put a stop to this Jack the Ripper’s reign of terror,” replied my fellow lodger, leaning defiantly against his doorframe.
I imagined our colleague would take umbrage with my companion’s declaration. However, once more I had underestimated Inspector Lestrade, and to my regret, for I realized suddenly that Holmes had no better friend in all Scotland Yard. Far from appearing surprised, he only smiled with wearied satisfaction.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt of that, Mr. Holmes. Not a doubt in the world. But I was bound to tell you, wasn’t I? Mend well. Good day to you, Dr. Watson.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN The London Monster
Holmes remained in his room for some time after Lestrade had made his way out. The sun had set entirely when he emerged, asking, “Care to pay a call guaranteed to be more civil than your earlier endeavour?”
“I am at your service, Holmes.”
“Then help me into my coat and we shall settle a problem that has been plaguing my mind.”
“Certainly. Where are we going?”
“To consult a specialist.”
“A specialist?” I repeated in surprise. “But you are the world’s foremost specialist in crime detection.”
“I do not dispute it,” he replied smoothly. “We shall consult a specialist in another field entirely.”
“But are you strong enough for a journey tonight?”
Holmes tucked one of his commonplace books under his good arm with a slightly puckish smile. “I appreciate your solicitude, Doctor. However, in this instance, I fear it is misplaced.”
Once out of doors in the bracing cold, Holmes turned and proceeded down Baker Street. He had passed two houses when he stopped abruptly. “If you wouldn’t mind ringing the bell, Watson. You are better acquainted with the fellow than I, I’m afraid.”
Suppressing a smile, I did as he asked. We had not long to wait before the door flew open to reveal Dr. Moore Agar with a pair of not unbecoming spectacles perched on his nose.
“Oh, I say!” he exclaimed delightedly. “I thought you a client, but this is even more gratifying.”
He escorted us into a cheerful, well-appointed chamber with a striped Venetian carpet on the floor, an economical fire in the grate, and more bookshelves than there were bare walls. Dr. Agar insisted that Holmes take the entire settee, deposited me graciously in an armchair, then stood before the fireplace in unabashed pleasure.
“Your uncle is a kind gentleman to have set you up in practice,” said Holmes.
“Is he, now!” Our host laughed, clapping his hands silently in approval. “I had hardly ventured to hope for a demonstration. If I were a less thoughtful man, I might have guessed that I mentioned my Uncle Augustus to you on Saturday night—or was it Sunday morning? But I did no such thing, and you must trot out your reasoning before a devoted admirer.”
Holmes smiled ruefully. “You may be amused to learn that I cannot recall the smallest detail of your visit.”
“My apologies, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Moore Agar, at your service,” he replied, extending his left hand to shake my friend’s unharmed limb. “Now, how did you deduce that Uncle Augustus financed this operation?”
“Certain indications suggest that you are forced to employ economy in your practice. However, your library is extensive, a few of your books quite rare, and your rooms well appointed. You have a benefactor, but not one from whom you receive regular sustenance. A single endowment, then, from a party whose fortunes do not permit more frequent aid. In my experience, the only folk in this world who donate large sums without fortunes to back them are close relatives. The box photograph on the mantel clearly depicts your own parents, who are dressed very simply. An unlikely source, then, for setting a young doctor up in practice. However, I observe a framed document behind your desk certifying one Dr. Augustus Agar a licensed physician. Your uncle, upon his retirement from practice, made you a gift of monies and, I daresay, a significant portion of his library. His medical license you retain as a keepsake.”
“It is marvelous! But how did you know Augustus Agar was my uncle and not my grandfather?”
“The date on the certificate, not to mention the typeface and the colour of the paper, rather precludes that notion.”
Dr. Agar shot me an appreciative glance. “I admit that I wondered whether your account of Mr. Holmes had embellished his powers, but I am now prepared to believe Mr. Holmes a genius, and yourself a man of unimpeachable honesty.”
“It is merely a matter of drawing inferences based on the visible data,” Holmes demurred with his usual withdrawn composure, but I could see he was flattered by the young doctor’s approval.
“Tush! There is nothing ‘mere’ about it. You are a pioneer in your field, a characteristic I wholeheartedly admire. I am also guilty of a unique course of study, which you have noted has not yet made my fortune.”
“You are engaged in an unusual branch of medicine, then?” I queried.
“And not a very popular one, I am afraid,” he smiled. “We tend to run the gamut from pathological anatomy to mesmerism, with all manner of phrenology, craniometry, and neurology thrown in. I am a psychologist.”
“Are you indeed?” I exclaimed.
“I studied in Paris for a year under Charcot at the Salpêtrière Hospital.* If Uncle Augustus had possessed the funds, he would certainly have set me up in Cavendish Square, and my expertise would thus be certified geographically. I am afraid Baker Street is the revered locus of criminal detection, not of the cure of mental disease. At present I subsist on referrals: the nervous, the hypochondriacal, and the merely sick. And of course, the occasional stabbing comes my way.”
“Yes, well,” coughed Holmes, “as it happens that is just the matter in which I require your assistance.”
“That is wonderful news!” Dr. Agar grinned. “I was burning with curiosity, but as a gentleman, I could hardly ask. What sort of assistance may I render?”
“Dr. Watson’s Medical Directory informed me you were a specialist in nervous disorders, and a glance at your shelves tells me you may be just the expert I require. Textbook of Brain Disorders, Mental Pathology and Therapeutics, Psychopathia Sexualis*—if you are the doctor your library proclaims, you could be of the greatest use.”
Holmes related briefly the circumstances which led to his grisly introduction to Dr. Agar. When he finished, the doctor nodded with an expression of deepest interest.
“I have, of course, followed the Ripper’s crimes very closely. I had an inkling from the press reports that it was his work I stitched up the other night. But let me understand you, sir—do you seek aid that is in some way psychological?”
“I do,” confirmed Holmes. “I am a consulting detective, Dr. Agar, and as such many branches of study come within my sphere, the majority of which deal with gathering and interpreting hard evidence. However, I believe the Ripper may be a variety of criminal I have never before pursued, and one against whom hard evidence is of alarmingly little use. My practice is based upon the fact that, although a given crime may appear unique, to the connoisseur of criminal history, it nearly alway
s follows an established pattern. In this case, the template was so very rare that it took me some time to identify it. But since the events of the thirtieth, I begin to know this fellow better. The double murder eroded his mask in a profound fashion. It appears we must understand that slaying these women is a pleasure second only to afterwards ripping them to pieces.”
I felt a growing revulsion at the conversation, but Dr. Agar appeared profoundly intrigued. “He seeks out women who have wronged him and enacts these terrible crimes out of sheer hatred?” I questioned.
Holmes shook his head. “I do not believe he knows them. It is my working hypothesis that this man kills perfect strangers. In fact, I have been led to believe that we are on the trail of a complete madman who is for all appearances an ordinary person.”
I stared at him aghast. “I could well believe that the fiend is mad,” I protested, “but what you suggest is impossible. There must be another motive behind the deaths of these women. The mad do not walk among the sane unremarked.”
“Do they not?” he queried, one brow tilted toward the ceiling.
“No,” I insisted irritably. “The merely eccentric are as sane as you or I, but as for a man who butchers the most pitiable of our populace without reason or foreknowledge—can you seriously believe such malice could go about the business of day-to-day life without exciting alarm?”
“Do not ask me. That is what I wish to inquire of Dr. Agar,” Holmes replied, turning the force of his steely gaze upon the psychologist standing before the dwindling fire. “Is it possible, in your professional opinion, for a madman to enact a faultless pretense of rational humanity?”
Dr. Agar moved to his bookshelf and selected a slim volume. “I begin to guess at your meaning, Mr. Holmes. You refer to the London Monster.”
Holmes swiftly indicated a passage from his commonplace book. “I refer not only to the London Monster, although he plays a telling role. Nearly a century ago—April seventeen eighty-eight, London: first appearance of the London ‘Monster.’ Approximately fifty women knifed on the streets between the years of eighty-eight and ninety. Suspect never caught. Mark that, Watson. Moving to the Continent; Innsbruck, eighteen twenty-eight: multiple women approached and stabbed with a common pocketknife. Case never closed. Bremen, eighteen eighty: a hairdresser slashed the breasts of no fewer than thirty-five women in broad daylight before he was apprehended. All are examples of what I believe could be termed a deeply morbid erotic mania.”