Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder

by Luke Benjamen Kuhns

“Any,” Hewitt returned. “An attempt to start a new life, running from something, anything - it may even come to a point where natural beauty will be replaced with falsities. The possibilities could be endless.”

  “Why did you look this man up?” Reid asked.

  “Mr Holmes was fortunate to pick up something that I missed, that card. It was in Jackson’s lodgings. We were told he took an unexpected trip to the continent, but then his body mysteriously turned up on the Thames bank. Now, with this false body of his in place, the rumour that he was off to the continent, in correlation with the card we now possess, is quite suggestive.”

  “It’s circumstantial,” I protested.

  “Or is it?” Holmes returned. “It’s the little things that count. The mud from the Goblin’s shoe led us to Daniels’ factory which led us to Jackson.”

  “Well,” Hewitt continued, “Holmes showed me the card at Scotland Yard. One of us needed to speak with this doctor. I gathered what I could and made my way to Paris. I would say for all the legwork I did I don’t feel much lighter; the cheese and wine was much too tempting. Anyway, I did my own investigation to find Doctor Jonqueres. He was out of town, staying in his country home some miles outside of Paris. I continued my journey to find him. I would hardly call his lodging a country home; a mansion would have been a more apt description. It rose three stories high, made out of solid grey limestone, with large arched windows, wide doors, and towering peaks. I pounded on the door and was greeted by a beautiful French maid. She was a lovely creature. She showed me into a room where I waited for the good doctor. When he arrived, he greeted me warmly.

  “‘Hello, Monsieur Hewitt,’ said he. ‘It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

  “‘As it is for me as well,’ I returned.

  “‘What is it that I can do for you?’ he asked.

  I proceeded to tell him of our investigation and our hunt for the man, Jackson, whom we believed might have come and had surgery performed on him some time ago. The doctor sat bewildered for some time. “‘How is it so that I have been pulled into this English drama?’ he inquired, smiling. Though, realising the seriousness of the situation, he quickly sobered. ‘No, no - forgive my jest. I take photographs of all my patients, before and after. I do not remember a man by the name Jackson, but the description reminds me of a man named Edward Wilder. An English businessman who came to see me some months back. We had corresponded for a while regarding some reconstruction surgery. I found him most odd, but he was eager to undergo the experiment. When he arrived, he had a terrible gash on his face, no more than a day or two old. This made the surgery slightly more difficult, but he did not want to wait. So I performed the surgery. When it was completed, he looked like a new man. However, there was a scar from the gash on his face. He was not bothered, though.’

  “‘Can I see the pictures of him?’ I asked the physician.

  “‘But of course, Monsieur Hewitt,’ he exclaimed, and jumped from his seat. ‘Now I must tell you the truth. Mr Wilder did not want any photographs before or after, but I could not resist capturing my work while he was still unconscious.’

  He went into a drawer, and withdrew a couple of photographs. Hewitt reached into his pocket and laid the photographs on the table. We saw the face, before and after, of Phillias Jackson. His brow had been changed, his lips, ears, his nose too. It was a confusing set of images to gaze upon as, for a moment, the faces looked similar yet oddly different.

  “I suspect he will change his hair colour as well,” said Reid.

  “Well, as it happens,” said Holmes, “Daniels’ lawyer came to see Lestrade. His company is being passed over to another person.” Holmes picked up a newspaper and laid it down onto the photographs. He pointed to a small article. “A Mr Edward Wilder will be hosting a ball in celebration of his new shipping business and revealing some kind of forefronted technology that will aid Britain as threats and rumours of wars continue to heighten.”

  “Jackson is Wilder,” said I. “He must have been working with Osgen in order to blackmail Goodtree and Daniels. But what I do not understand is the Goblin Mystery now. We thought it was Jackson.”

  “It was not Jackson himself, but it was his associate,” confirmed Holmes.

  “Who is this person?” Reid asked.

  “Ruth Lamech,” confirmed Holmes.

  “But she was… how is that possible?” Reid asked.

  “On the blueprints at the Liberal Club were the initials R.L., and the writing on the prints was distinctly feminine. While Lestrade and the rest were looking into the clientele of the Liberal Club, I decided to try and find Reid’s missing Jews. It was confirmed to me by a trustworthy source, a connection my brother Mycroft forbids me from disclosing, that Ruth was a mechanical genius and was the one responsible for designing the explosives used by Lamech and the anarchists. Second, the Goblin man outfit we found in Jackson’s shed, I discovered two markers; some strands of long dark hair inside the mask and a fingerprint. I was able to match her print to one in Lamech’s former East End lodgings. She is our Goblin and She, I believe, enhanced her explosives design for Jackson to use on Goodtree, but could not do so until he ordered in the equipment: the powders from Burk and Lynn.”

  “So we have it then!” exclaimed Reid. “Jackson used these players to acquire Daniels and Goodtree’s business. Though Mrs Goodtree thought he was the unlucky but brilliant businessman, it was Ruth who aided him.”

  “Haven’t you realised how the poison got into Lamech on the same day Jackson was seen with him at the public house?” Holmes asked.

  Reid’s eyes lit up. “It was her. She got the poison into his food? She betrayed her husband with Jackson!”

  “With the promise of a new and better future as a wealthy businesswoman,” said Hewitt.

  “Rather than the wife of an anarchist living in a slum,” said I.

  Holmes sighed. “So Ruth was posing as the Goblin while Jackson was away. Osgen and Ruth would have put things in place while he reconstructed his face, but something even more concerning is this.” Holmes laid out the blueprints with R.L. initialled on them. “Do you know what this might be? Take a look at the guests due to attend the event tomorrow.” We looked at the paper and saw that Lord Myers was to attend. He had, in the past, been the target of many anarchist attacks. “The scarlet thread of murder, which has run through this case, has led to this: Jackson’s assuming a new identity and running the Daniels and Goodtree business with Ruth Lamech being his engineer, there is only one more personal matter to see too, Lord Myers. He is to be at the demonstration but he is not meant to leave alive. Jackson has what he wanted now Ruth wants Myers death. All it takes is one mistake in a demonstration, a sudden bit of chaos, and he could be killed. Now we set the final trap for our little mouse.”

  Chapter 22

  Doctor Watson

  The Final Trap

  Autumn 1890

  Edward Wilder’s grand event was to be hosted at the Royal Geographical Society opposite Hyde Park. It was by invitation only, but Holmes and Hewitt managed to acquire a set. The previous night we had formulated a plan. Jackson, or now Wilder, would be easy to catch, but we needed his final accomplice. If Holmes’s information was right, we needed Ruth. Holmes explained that the blueprint designs were for something quite grand and terrible. As Hewitt looked over the information, he explained that the Whitechapel explosion was but a demonstration on a smaller scale. The design had been enlarged and perfected, which would explain the whereabouts of all the powders purchased from Burke and Lynn. Though Reid’s concerns were greater, he speculated that the explosive might be laced with the fire flower poison as well, meaning that anyone not killed by the blast might still be effected by deadly toxins. Without capturing Ruth, White’s death and Brett’s injuries would never be fully avenged.

  The following day, Inspector Reid, Martin Hewitt, Sherlock Holmes, and myself took a cab from Baker Street. Hewitt updated us with Brett’s recovery. He was speedily on the mend, but not
fit enough to join us for the last leg of our adventure. Hewitt informed me that Brett was curious if I would write about this particular investigation.

  “Brett had taken his time to write up his side of the investigation thus far, and he asked me to share it with you,” said Hewitt. Reid informed me that he, too, had kept a journal of the events and would also be happy to share once it was completed.

  We arrived at the R.G.S. and were warmly welcomed into the event. We were shown into a grand ballroom with elegant maps of the world reaching from the floor to the ceiling. One wall was glass, and led out into an immaculate garden lit with the soft glow of lamps. Outside was a tent where members of the party were gathering, feasting, and smoking. Inside, women in glorious ballroom dresses glided about across the marble floor with glasses of wine and champagne in their hands. Waiters and maids were catering to everyone’s needs; the room seemed jolly. At the far end of the room stood a podium, and before it were a few rows of chairs. Behind the podium was something round and shrouded in white cloth.

  “Do you notice anything, Watson?” Holmes asked me. I took another look around the room. I saw it.

  “The flowers,” I acknowledged. He nodded. The room was covered in the fire flowers, but to add to the danger, the guests were each wearing one. “So they aren’t in the explosive?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “Keep an eye out for Lord Myers.”

  Reid was standing at the back of the room, watching the guests come and go. He held a glass of brandy but did not so much as sip it. Hewitt was wading through the crowd towards the door leading out into the garden. I saw him go through.

  It was not long before Lord Myers arrived. A maid ran up to him and presented him with a flower. He graciously accepted. After taking a quick whiff of the petals, he put it into his front pocket and picked up a drink.

  “Keep a keen eye on him, Watson,” ordered Holmes. “I’ll return later.” I nodded and watched as Holmes vanished into the crowd. Moments later, an announcement was made that Mr Wilder would be coming in shortly to give a speech. The guests outside began to make their way inside.

  “Have you ever met this Wilder fellow?” someone asked me.

  “Afraid not.”

  “Bit queer. He seems to have just come out of nowhere. Apparently he’s amassed a fortune in the Americas but wanted to come back to a civilised land.”

  “When did you make this acquaintance?” I asked.

  The man twisted his blonde moustache as he pondered. “Well, I’ve not actually met him either. I became aware of him about a month ago. Members of the R.G.S. were invited to meet this exuberant businessman. Naturally his travels are what drew us to him.”

  “Everyone here is a member, then?” I questioned.

  “As far as I know. Aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am,” I lied. “I thought I recognised most members, but some faces are unfamiliar to me.”

  “There are a few new faces, but this is a members-only club. Wilder must have done something very sweet to get Lord Myers to come. Maybe a few pennies for his campaign.” The man nudged me with his elbow and smirked. Then Mr Edward Wilder entered the room.

  With an abundantly charming disposition, he began greeting everyone, shaking the men warmly by the hand, and kissing the women on the tops of their gloved hands. I could see the scar on the side of his cheek from where Goodtree had sliced him and Doctor Jonqueres had struggled to repair it.

  Seeing Jackson as Wilder was a most unusual sight. He had, as guessed, changed his hair colour from dark peppered black to a blonde, almost white, colour. His attire was most fashionable. He wore shiny leather shoes with white tops, a green and blue checked suit, and reddish brown gloves. Under his jacket was a dark waistcoat and around his neck a red cravat. He wore spectacles with a bluish tint to the lenses. Everything about this man was completely the opposite of Jackson. Jackson, while bold and aggressive, was not showy. This version was. Perhaps it was the man he always wanted to be. He walked towards me and greeted me with a firm handshake.

  “Hello there, sir, so glad of you to make it tonight,” he said to me.

  “I’m happy to be here,” I returned.

  “Good man, good man!” he returned with a bright smile before carrying on greeting the others.

  I glance towards Reid, who stood still as a statue watching the room and keeping an eye fixed on Wilder. Lord Myers was near the door leading towards the gardens. When Wilder greeted him, he motioned for the two to go outside. They started for the door, but then Hewitt made a grand entrance, expressing his delight to see both Wilder and Lord Myers. Hewitt’s interruption resulted in Wilder proceeding without the nobleman as Hewitt stuck up a conversation with him instead.

  A short time later, the guests had taken seats as Wilder had found his place in front of the podium. Holmes was nowhere to be seen while Reid and Hewitt hung towards the back of the room.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, from the depths of my heart I thank you for coming tonight. It is an honour and a privilege to share this evening with you. As some of you know, I have spent most of my time in the Americas. I left our fair green country for that great American outback - rolling deserts, Indians, cowboys.The Americans, for all their faults, have crafted a wondrous land. Business is booming, but now it’s time to come back home and serve our Queen.

  “Through some mutual acquaintances, I came into knowledge that was widely secret, that Mr Daniels and Goodtree were looking to sell their company over to pursue other avenues. I happened to be in a position to purchase it, which I did. Sadly the two men were victims of fate. God rest their treasured souls.” Wilder carried on for some time praising the two men whom he had killed, before his ignorant audience. “Many of you know that travelling the Atlantic is no small feat, nor is making your way down to Australia or to India. There’s a bounty of wealth and trade that crisscrosses the globe. What I propose is a faster, more efficient way of doing business, but creating a more streamlined trade is not our only mission.

  “As I said, I’ve come back to serve our holy monarch, Queen Victoria. War is nibbling at our toes, not just from outside our borders but from within, as Lord Myers can testify too with the Jewish problem. One of the best weapons manufacturing companies in the country, Burke and Lynn, have partnered with me to take Britain to the next level of warmongering. Our lands will be safe from intruders, our borders will be tight, thanks to my brilliant engineers.” The room lit up in a roar of applause.

  I found myself taken aback by their praise for this man. It was no secret that trouble lurked on our doors, but to suggest our streets were riddled with a pest such as the Jews was despicable. I turned towards Hewitt, but he had vanished. I looked back at Reid, and he nodded towards the door. Hewitt had left. I felt a stab of surprise; this wasn’t part of the plan.

  “It’s time for a demonstration!” cried Wilder. He pulled the shroud off of the contraption. “A new form of explosive with enough power to peel the skin off a rhino sixty feet away.”

  He opened the container up and began explaining how the components worked. The bomb was meant to be planted in the ground, like a mine. Wilder claimed it could take out charging cavalry. He offered people the chance to look inside the deadly machine. Groups of three or four began walking up and looking inside while Wilder dazzled them with details. My heart began to race as Lord Myers got closer to the piece.

  Reid approached me. “This doesn’t feel right,” he said. “Look at the way they are all freely tinkering with the inside. If that was to be the killing machine…”

  “Unless he’s going to kill them all?”

  Something seemed to catch Reid’s attention. A man leaning against the wall was pulling on his collar. As he did so, his wrist was exposed.

  “My God,” said Reid.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “The missing anarchists.”

  “Explain!”

  “That man, his wrist, the marking on it is the same marking found on the anarchists.”
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  “I noticed the marking myself,” said Hewitt approaching. “I snooped around, there are a fare number of people with the anarchist markings. All were personally invited by Wilder and not member of the club,” Hewitt informed us.

  “Who are they?” Reid asked.

  Hewitt pointed out six individuals he had spotted with the marking, all of which were hanging around Myers.

  “One man said something to me earlier,” said I. “He mentioned Wilder must have dropped him some money for his coming campaign.”

  “It makes sense. This is what Jacob meant! Lamech’s man, right before he shot himself. He mentioned a bigger game. The anarchists have got their greatest enemy into a room and will kill him,” said Reid.

  “It’s not going to be a straightforward killing!” said I.

  “We’re running out of time. We need to get Lord Myers out of here,” said Hewitt.

  “The flowers?” Reid asked.

  “Everyone is wearing them; is that is their method of murder,” returned Hewitt.

  “Poisoned food or drink?” I offered.

  “Where is Holmes?” Reid asked

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I thought he would have come back by now.”

  “Doctor, I think you should keep an eye on Lord Myers before he gets up to that machine,” said Hewitt.

  I nodded and made my way towards the Lord. He looked at me oddly. He fingered the glass in his hand before setting it down and walking over to me. Crowds of people still gathered around Wilder’s machine.

  “I know your face,” said Myers. “You’re that doctor chap who partners with that sleuth, aren’t you?”

  “Come again?” I asked.

  “Yes, you helped one of my colleagues out some time ago, I remember. Reginald Donovan, the little incident with the missing gem. He said the sleuth could tell the thief was left-handed and had recently spilt vinegar on their hands. Turns out it was the cook who took the gem. And it was all done by examining the box from which it was taken!”

  “Yes, that is me,” I returned. “My name is Doctor Watson.”