“I need you to tell me what you know of Jackson, and why he was being forced out of this club by Goodtree.”
“How do you know this?” she asked with an eerie calm.
“I’ve seen the letter of instruction.”
“Jackson got into an argument with Goodtree and Daniels.”
“Over what?”
“Over rights. The argument that is nearly as old as time. We fulfil a person’s desire here. Some people, like Goodtree and Daniels, like to indulge in forbidden fruit; ethnic fetishes, and so on.”
“Jackson was outraged when he learnt of their fetish?” I pressed.
Osgen hopped up onto the desk and crossed her legs. She fondled the knife in her hands. “To engage in the act of pleasure, to embrace carnal nature and give in to that inner beast which longs to break free from our oppressed society is what we do.” I looked at her, bewildered. “You don’t understand, do you, Mr Reid?”
“I believe I do.”
“I believe you do not.” She stepped down from the desk, leaving the knife behind, and walked over to me. “A moment ago, I wanted to kill you. Cut your throat and spill your blood right here on the sofa. I wanted to watch you gag as you lost the ability to breathe. Why hide these carnal impulses?” She put her hands on either side of my face and leaned in. With her body pressed against mine, she kissed my lips. “You know you want to give in,” she whispered into my ear.
“Stand back, woman!” I said, putting space between us.
A look of thrill and surprise came upon her. Her eyes were on fire and she twitched her fingers with excitement. “Now Mr Reid,” she said, approaching me again. “You are in a safe place. What you do here stays here.” She reached behind and stripped off the skirt of her dress. She stood, barelegged in her corset, as she ran her hands down my chest. “Are you telling me that deep inside that shell of yours, you aren’t bursting to just give in and take me? To forget this gentlemanly facade that so many try to hold up when all they really want is to be an animal?”
“I assure you, I am not.” I remained placid.
She smiled and, despite my words, brought her face closer to mine.
“I suppose Jackson wouldn’t give in either, and you had him removed?”
“Oh! Jackson this, Jackson that! Hell, Reid! You have a woman ready to pounce and purr and all you can think about is the damn work! I can’t be having this. It looks like I will have to kill you now. Which is a shame.” She pushed herself away and walked over to the desk.
“And how, pray, are you going to do so?” I approached her slowly. She held the knife up. “I can defend myself against a knife.” She looked at it, and acted as if she was going to throw it at me. I ducked. She laughed.
“This is a fun game, Mr Reid.” A smile graced her face. Then she slammed the knife into the top of the desk. “But now it’s time to end.” She withdrew a concealed revolver. I dived as the gun went off, darting towards the back of the sofa as each bullet came closer and closer to striking me. I sat behind it, and could hear the clicking of the empty gun. Osgen began to chuckle. “Come out, Mr Reid!”
I could hear her opening drawers. I reached for my revolver, and slowly peeked around the corner of the sofa. When she caught me, she fired a shot from another gun and burst into laughter. I reached around and fired a shot.
“Oh! That was close!” she cried in glee. She fired a shot and it went through the back of the sofa and struck me in the arm. I held back my cry of pain as best I could. “Did I get you? Did I?”
I quickly rose and fired a shot at her. She screamed as my bullet pierced her arm. She growled like a wild animal, and I could hear her shoving things off the desk in a fit of rage and throwing whatever she could get her hands on.
“I need you to calm down!” I called out to her while I nursed my wound. Suddenly, the noise stopped. I looked around to see what she was doing, but she was not at the desk.
“Here I am,” she smiled at me and cackled.
I turned. A shot was fired, and my revolver was blown away. With some cat-like agility, she had crept up on me from behind. Her left arm was a red mess, blood covering her corset and streaking down her white legs. In her right hand, she held her revolver aimed directly at my head.
“I don’t wish to kill you, madam.”
“You’re not in a position to kill me.”
“Tell me who killed Jackson.”
Her eyes blazed. “Stop bloody asking about Jackson!”
“If you’re going to kill me, grant me that, Mother Osgen.”
Her eyes cooled. Her scowl softened. “It pains a mother to have to punish a child. Men will never know what it was like when God had to punish her children with the curse of death, and continuing that punishment will never be easy.”
“Then you contradict yourself. You said you give in to carnal impulses. Like Cain killing Abel. But now, you wish to kill me but it pains you - thus your carnal instinct isn’t to kill, but to live.”
“Mr Reid, don’t try and make this philosophical. You must die.”
“So you’ll kill me to protect the person who attempted to kill Jackson.”
“Yes.” She stretched out her arm, I looked down the barrel, and awaited the bullet. “Goodnight, Mr-” Her words were cut off by the bang of a gunshot.
I jolted back with my eyes closed and my heart beating furiously. I opened my eyes and saw Osgen standing before me, wavering. The gun dropped from her hand and crashed onto the floor. She fell to her knees. I could see a tear in her left eye. Then she fell over, dead. Her body lay collapsed to the right, and in her fiery red hair I could see a cold crimson thread of blood. I looked at the doorway, and there stood Doctor Watson, his revolver still smoking.
Chapter 21
Doctor Watson
The Hunt For Brett and White
Autumn 1890
Inspector Reid looked at me with utter shock and bewilderment. The red-headed woman lay dead on the floor. The room was in complete disarray, and bullet holes speckled the walls. I ran over to Reid once I saw his arm had been wounded. I took my cravat and wrapped it firmly around the wound.
“I thought I was dead,” panted Reid.
“A moment later, and you may have been,” I returned.
“Where is Holmes?”
“Downstairs.”
“We need to find White and Brett. Their drinks were poisoned, and I have no idea what these women have done with our colleagues or what they will do to them.” I helped Reid up, and we made our way towards the stairs. “How did you get in, by the way?” I asked as we descended.
“We heard the shots from the cab outside, and Holmes and I kicked the door in. I came up here while he looked elsewhere,” I informed.
When we came downstairs, no one seemed to be aware of either the gunfire upstairs or our entrance. Down in the hall, the members were still drinking while scantily dressed maids served them.
“Her, that maid over there. I remember her. She served us initially. She might be able to tell us where the others are.”
“Ah, there you two are,” said Holmes approaching from behind. He evaluated Reid. “Is she dead? The red-headed woman?”
“This is no time for amazement at your powers, Mr Holmes, but how can you know it was a red-headed woman?”
“By your sleeve. Red hairs wrapped around the button on your cuff. The hair is too long to belong to Mr White. The logical conclusion is that you were in a battle with a woman with long red hair.”
“What you observe is truth. She is dead.”
“Shame.”
“She was going to kill him, Holmes!” I cried.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” a maid asked.
“Yes, girl,” said Reid. “You may recall me from earlier. I was speaking with Mother, er, Osgen. Where has she taken my colleagues?”
“I don’t know.”
“Pupils dilated, pulse increased, aversion to looking any of us in the eye,” said Holmes.
“What?” she replied.
“You’re lying,” said he.
“You’re making me nervous, is all,” she stammered.
“Girl, your Mother is dead, there is no salvation for you. You will tell us where our colleagues are, or I will arrest you for aiding in a kidnapping,” said Reid.
She stepped back a moment. “Follow me.”
She took us to the back of the hall and through a door that matched the wooden panelling of the walls. The hall we went through was dark with little light to help us see. She opened a door and gasped. The room was empty. Holmes darted inside and looked around. He found a shattered oil lamp.
“A nice trick,” said Holmes.
“What?” demanded Reid.
“Oil,” Holmes pointed, “One of the two used it to free their hands before escaping.” As Holmes stood, he looked at the mirrors around the room. “Hmm, false mirrors. Interesting.”
“There’s a key in this cuff,” said I.
“And the oil is still warm,” Reid said.
“Tell us miss, where did they go?” Holmes asked.
“I don’t know, honest I don’t!” She replied nervously.
“Is there another way out?” I pressed.
“I don’t know! I don’t, I’m not allowed to go beyond this room.”
“It’s likely they went deeper in rather than risk being caught going back through the hall,” said Reid.
“Agreed.” Holmes nodded.
“Girl, you have to come with us,” said Reid. I took her by the arm and put her in front of us as we continued down the hall.
As we walked, we heard a blood-curdling scream. Holmes and Reid ran ahead while I followed behind with the girl. A light led me up a flight of stairs.
The sight inside was one of utter horror. Brett lay by the window. He held his side, groaning in pain. Holmes stood over White, who lay on the floor by an open door. Reid was nowhere to be seen. The girl screamed at the grotesque scene; I covered her mouth, telling her to quiet herself. Her breathing calmed after a moment, and I removed my grip. She curled in a ball in a corner, tears running down her face.
I raced over to Brett. “Don’t worry, Brett. You’ll be fine,” said I, examining his wound. He was covered in blood, but his wounds were manageable. He had a few gashes in his abdomen, a deep wound in his left leg, and a broken hand.
I turned to Holmes. He looked at me and shook his head. I looked down at White. He lay in a thick pool of blood. His throat had been slashed and someone had ripped his belly open and yanked is intestines out. Holmes glanced at Brett.
“Is he… is he… dead?” Brett asked with tears in his eyes. “Is White dead?” I held Brett’s face in my hands a moment, and his panicked eyes looked at me.
“He is, Brett. He’s gone.” The journalist burst into a shower of tears. “I tried, Doctor. I tried to help! White, he… he… I was wrong about him.”
“Tell us what happened,” I asked.
“We already know,” said Holmes.
“What?” I turned to look at Holmes who was shifting through the desk and looking at some kind of mechanical blueprints.
“It was the Goblin man,” Holmes said coolly.
“The Goblin man?” I questioned.
“A hideous creature,” gasped Brett. “It came in like a devil. No, no, I can’t speak of it. I won’t.”
“Calm yourself,” I assured him.
“Reid chased him out. He was ripping at White when we came in,” said Holmes.
“I thought Jackson was the Goblin? We found that attire at his lodging in Putney.”
“So we did, Watson. Someone else has taken on his mantle.” Holmes began looking through the disrupted papers on the floor and in the desk.
“But why?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet…” Holmes trailed off. “What is this?”
“Tell us.”
“A letter to Mother Osgen from Daniels. He’s agreeing to the passing over of his company to an unknown benefactor.”
“Why would he do that?”
“It is curious, Watson.”
“His pocket,” said Brett.
“Pardon?” I asked.
“White’s pocket, there are photographs. Get them.”
Holmes found them and looked upon them with disgust. I approached and saw the reason for his revulsion. Grotesque images of filth.
“I’ve seen images like these before,” said Holmes.
“Where?” I demanded, scandalised.
He reached into his inner coat pocket and withdrew a photograph. I took it into my hand. It was an image of Mr Daniels and Mrs Goodtree in the midst of an explicit sexual encounter with several young Jewish women.
“I found this the day I searched Daniels’ office. It was in his safe. Its connection remained unknown until now. But clearly Daniels didn’t believe it was any connection to the Goblin Man, otherwise he would have said.”
“You think he would have divulged something like this?”
“Most probably.” Holmes put the photographs into his pocket.
“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “The woman, do you remember? The one we saw outside Daniels’ house. He said she was nobody.”
“Yes, it would appear to be this Osgen woman. She must have been delivering those papers. Daniels was losing his company to her, and she was blackmailing him with these images.”
Perspiring and panting, Reid stood in the doorway. He walked over and knelt down by his fallen friend and colleague. He clenched his fist and struck the floor. Holmes, though rarely one for sentiment, reached over and put his on Reid’s shoulder.
“He was a good man, a smart man. A bit misguided but good.” Reid wiped his face and stood up. “Still, we have work to do.”
Holmes nodded, then showed the pictures from White’s pocket, then the picture of Daniels and Mrs Goodtree.
“It’s likely others were being blackmailed by this woman. Which means it would be important to get a list of the clientele and smoke out the rest of the rats here,” said Holmes.
“I agree,” nodded Reid.
“Reid. Remind me, what was the name of Lamech’s wife?” Holmes asked.
“Ruth, why?”
“Curious.”
We turned when we heard the rustling in the corner. The maid had tried to slip out the door.
“Girl, come here,” Reid ordered. The maid stopped and returned upon command, her face streamed with makeup. “Whose house are we in?”
“It’s the missus’ house,” she responded.
“Is that why you were not allowed to go beyond the rooms in the passage?”
“I suppose so. Well, we weren’t given any real explanation for it. But it was known where the tunnel led,” she whispered.
“You will have to come with us.”
“I don’t want to go to jail!” She began to shake and cry.
“If you help us, we can help you,” Reid assured her.
***
The local authorities were called in along with Lestrade to clear out the liberal club. We saw that Brett was looked after and received medical attention for his wounds. His leg was badly injured, and he would need to keep off it for some time. White’s body was removed, as was Miss Osgen’s. The young maid proved useful in giving us important information about the clientele, which aided in making many high profile arrests over the next week as the club was washed out. Holmes kept himself busy, but spoke little over those few days as to his whereabouts.
***
“We are still no closer to Jackson!” exclaimed Reid, as he stood in the window of 221B Baker Street. “I don’t know why you called me here to look down deadends!” He turned towards Holmes and myself, who were sitting in our usual places. The glaring sunlight silhouetted the Inspector’s back.
Holmes, who was surrounded by a hoard of papers, reached for his pipe and Persian slipper in which he stored his tobacco. Slowly he began packing the bowl of his cherrywood pipe.
“Not all is as dark as you believe,” said Holmes igniting his pipe and t
aking a few puffs before rising. He reached into the pocket of his mouse-coloured dressing gown and withdrew a card, handing it to Reid.
“What’s this?”
“A card, a doctor’s card.” There was a buzz at the door. “Aha! Good, he’s right on time.” Reid looked to me for an explanation, but I could offer none.
The door swung open, and the large figure of Investigator Hewitt stood before us. “After racing here from Victoria those seventeen steps were something of a final trek up the mountain’s peak,” he said.
“Pray, take a seat and tell us what you know,” said Holmes.
“First, where is Brett?” he asked.
“Mr Brett,” Reid began, “was injured. He’s alive, but his leg was badly wounded by a knife. He won’t return to us for some time.”
Hewitt’s face dropped. “What happened?” he pressed.
We informed Hewitt of all that had happened at the Liberal Club and of the arrests that had occurred because of our investigation. He was disgusted with the inner workings of the club, and further revolted by the Daniels and Goodtree’s darker secrets. Lastly Holmes mentioned the will of Daniels and the new owner.
“Now, Holmes,” said I. “You and Mr Hewitt have kept us in the dark with this mysterious trip to the continent.”
“I will reveal all,” said Hewitt. “It is connected with that card you hold, Mr Reid.” Reid glanced at it again. “Doctor Jean-Christopher Jonqueres, a Paris based physician, is at the forefront of medical science. He is widely known for skin grafts, helping disfigured individuals reconstruct their appearance to look more natural. His first patient was a young African boy who had been bitten by a poisonous spider and lost a large chunk of his face. Doctor Jonqueres performed a series of grafts to cover the wound, returning the boy’s face almost back to normal. As the science has progressed, the questions, both in the realms of possibility and of morality, of changing one’s face to look radically different have been raised.”
“Might someone change their appearance to hide their identity?” Reid questioned.
“Precisely,” said Holmes.
“To what end?” I asked.
Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder Page 11