‘Come, Holmes! That’s an utterly different case.’
‘But why, pray? His corpses were just as dead as yours. Is it only sane to mutilate them inside the walls of a hospital?’
‘This is mere sophistry, Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘When a doctor performs a dissection he does so for an excellent reason, which is to enlarge human knowledge. But this monster has no reason for what he does beyond his own twisted desires. That is what makes him insane.’
‘And you accuse me of sophistry! My dear Watson, I fear the pot is calling the kettle black. Your argument, like Giotto’s O, is remarkable for the perfection of its circularity. You deny that our man has any serious purpose, since his deeds are those of a maniac. When I enquire what is maniacal about them, you reply that it is their lack of purpose. You have demonstrated nothing but the tenacity of your received ideas – as to which, quite frankly, I was never in any real doubt.’
‘Then what is his purpose?’
‘To create chaos. To work evil.’
‘But he was doing far more harm formerly!’ I cried. ‘You say he controlled the underworld single-handed. What more could he want? What worse can he do?’
‘He can destroy the very fabric of civilisation itself,’ replied Holmes gravely. ‘Formerly he was as much a pillar of society as any captain of industry or financial magnate. No one has a greater vested interest in preserving the status quo than your average criminal, for his livelihood depends upon it. When Moriarty was their general, he had no more interest in fomenting anarchy than Mr Gladstone. Certainly his agents robbed and blackmailed and intimidated; even murdered on occasion – but to what end? A few individuals suffered and Moriarty became rich. To a man of the Professor’s abstract turn of mind it must have been very clear that, for all his genius, he was merely a petty crook writ large. His desire now is not to magnify mediocrity, but to make himself the instrument of evil itself. Evil cannot be fettered with motive and meaning! It simply strikes at will, and a woman lies gutted on the pavements of London Town. Already he has created a reign of terror unparalleled in this century. Unless I stop him, the cancer he has implanted in Whitechapel will spread and grow until folk are afraid to step out after nightfall, and sit huddled around the fire, starting at a sound. I tell you, Watson, this man means to bring back the Dark Ages! What makes it possible for millions of people to live together in a city such as London? Trust! Destroy trust and you make modern life impossible, and turn our great open city into a camp of armed strangers.’
He paused, staring down at the ground. When he looked up, his eyes burned with a fierce determination.
‘Well, he has challenged me. I accept the challenge.’
He broke off suddenly. His gaze was fixed on the path by which we had entered the park. I could see nothing of interest – only an old tramp who was searching the edge of the lake for scraps of bread left by the fowl.
‘Come, Watson, it’s getting chilly.’ Holmes’s voice had changed from its discursive tone to one of high urgency. ‘I am going away for a few days,’ he announced, as we crossed the bridge over the water. ‘If anyone asks for me, tell them I am out of the country. As for you, old fellow, take care of yourself. We are engaged with a man who has already murdered five women with cold-blooded venom. It behoves us to be on our guard at all times.’
I was not taken in by this. Whatever the dangers, they threatened no one as much as Holmes himself, and I was determined that he should not face them alone. I therefore offered to accompany him. He refused politely. I insisted. The greater the risks he had to run, the more reason for me to share them with him.
‘You have often been glad of my support in the past, Holmes. If this man is the evil genius you claim, it would be mere folly to venture against him alone.’
‘You mean well, I know, Watson, but this affair calls not for bulldog tenacity but for quick wits and nimble limbs. You have neither. Now would you kindly summon that four-wheeler and have him stop just by this gate.’
I was deeply hurt by my friend’s words. That he could speak to me in such a way was eloquent proof of the terrible strain under which he was labouring. In my heart I forgave him, but I did his bidding coldly and in silence. As the cab drew up, Holmes handed me a scrap of paper on which he had scribbled an address.
‘Pass this to the driver, will you? And tell him to make haste.’
I passed this injunction and the note to the cabbie, and then followed Holmes inside. To my amazement, I found the vehicle quite empty. I looked back from the window as we drove away, but the street was deserted, except for the old tramp loitering by the gates. A moment’s reflection persuaded me that Holmes must have entered the cab by one door and alighted immediately by the other, thus using the vehicle as cover behind which to slip away down a side-street. I could only hope that this ruse had been successful.
The address to which the cabbie had been directed proved to be 221 Baker Street, and it was there that I spent the following four days – alone, without occupation, and increasingly preoccupied with gloomy forebodings. I knew not what Holmes was doing, nor where he was staying, and since I had no news it was inevitable that I should come to fear the worst. Every morning I opened the paper with trepidation, and though I found nothing to confirm my fears, I could not quiet them. Certainly Holmes was quite capable of defending himself, given a sporting chance, but Moriarty did not sound the type of man who would trouble himself much about the methods he employed.
Finally, as the days dragged slowly by, I made up my mind that if Holmes had still not reappeared by the end of the week, I would call Lestrade and lay the facts before him. Thus when Lestrade himself called at Baker Street on the Thursday morning, my only thought was that he brought word of some dreadful tragedy which had befallen Holmes. His mien was strangely serious, as befits the bearer of evil tidings. I rushed to meet him at the head of the stairs.
‘What is it?’ I cried wildly. ‘Come, let me know the worst!’
Taken unawares, Lestrade stumbled backwards. I took hold of his sleeve as he clutched for the banister. ‘Tell me all! What has happened? I must know!’
The official recovered his balance with an effort.
‘You didn’t ought to do that, Dr Watson,’ said he slowly. ‘If I had slipped and broke my neck down there, you would have been in serious trouble. Especially when they found this in my pocket.’
He passed me a scruffy envelope. It was addressed to himself, in care of Scotland Yard. There was something oddly familiar about the handwriting. Inside was a letter, scrawled on the cheapest paper. It ran:
Dear Boss,
I guess you must be having fits never knowing where Ill pop up next why dont you see a good doctor?
Yours for ever
Jack in the box
No sooner had I read the signature than I knew where I had seen the writing before. It was identical to that of the letter and postcard signed by the murderer of Eddowes and Stride! I looked up at Lestrade.
‘It is another letter from the killer.’
The detective nodded.
‘And you have come to consult Holmes,’ I continued, feeling rather ridiculous after my histrionics. ‘Of course! But I fear I must disappoint you. He is not here.’
‘No Doctor, I didn’t come to see Mr Holmes. I came to see you.’
‘To see me? But why?’
Lestrade produced a small card from his wallet. ‘This was enclosed with the letter you have just read.’
I took the card from him, and gasped. I could not have been more surprised if the thing had turned to a pigeon in my hand. Badly stained with blood, but still legible, it was one of my own calling cards!
Lestrade was staring at me expressionlessly.
‘But – It’s one of my cards!’ I spluttered.
‘Yes, sir. We were able to spot that, even without Mr Holmes’s assistance. The point that interests me is how one of your cards, with blood all over it, came to be included with a letter written – as you yourself admitted – by the Whitechapel k
iller.’
I stared at the policeman in speechless confusion. I had not seen one of those cards for almost two years. I had had them printed before my association with Holmes had made an independent social life both impossible and unnecessary. Fortunately, I was rescued from my embarrassment by the arrival of a constable bearing a message for the detective. Lestrade read it through, then glanced quickly at the man.
‘Wait here,’ he ordered him. Then, turning to me, ‘Would you have any objection to my taking a look in Mr Holmes’s room, Doctor?’
‘In Holmes’s room? Whatever for?’
He passed me the message he had just received. I read:
You will find what you need on the mantel in Holmes’s room. Do not let Dr Watson leave the premises. Retain the constable.
Abberline**
‘Of course, I cannot force you to show me the room without a warrant,’ Lestrade continued blandly, ‘but I’m sure you can have no objection, as a law-abiding citizen, to my having a look.’
I felt as though I were trapped in some senseless dream from which there was no awakening. But my voice mumbled assent, and we crossed over and passed through the doorway into Holmes’s room. Lestrade looked around at the pictures of famous criminals which covered every wall. Then he strode over to the fireplace. The mantelpiece was littered with an assortment of revolver cartridges, knives, pipe dottles, postage stamps, odd coins and so on. But one object stood out boldly from all the rest. It was a medical flask, and it was filled to the brim with a dark red fluid. Lestrade gave a low whistle.
‘Blood!’ he cried.
‘Blood?’ I echoed.
‘Port,’ said a voice from the doorway. We whirled around, to find ourselves under the amused scrutiny of Sherlock Holmes. ‘Don’t be misled by the container,’ he went on. ‘It’s a Quinta Noval, the ’53, and should be quite drinkable. I decanted it myself just the other day. But don’t take my word for it! There are glasses in the front room, and a fire. Shall we?’
To a disinterested observer, Lestrade and I must have presented a comical spectacle as we filed sheepishly out of Holmes’s room. But there was no such observer, as Lestrade at once remarked.
‘My constable! Where is he?’
Holmes picked up a coat, a wig, and a beard from the sofa.
‘Here he is!’
‘You!’
Holmes bowed.
‘Then the note you brought was –’
‘Counterfeit.’
‘And the letter, in the killer’s hand?’
‘Ditto.’
‘But the writing –’
‘Pooh! A poor imitation. The “p”s alone should have alerted you.’
‘And my card?’ I put in.
‘Purloined.’
‘But the blood?’
‘Bovine. Best quality calf’s kidney, obtainable at any good butcher’s.’
He handed us each a glass of port. Lestrade threw his back as though it were medicine.
‘So this is what you call helping the police, is it? Sending us running off on a wild goose chase when we are stretched to breaking point trying to catch a homicidal maniac. I would have thought you would be ashamed to waste our time with this kind of childish practical joking! Mind you, I don’t deny that your fancy-dress was very well done. You should have gone on the stage, Mr Holmes. I’ve said it before –’
‘And you will say it again,’ interrupted Holmes, unhurriedly filling a pipe.
‘No doubt, sir! No doubt. But the theatre is one thing, and real life is another. If you were in a vaudeville I’d be calling for an encore. As it is, I have a good mind to arrest you for impersonating a police officer.’
‘But I wouldn’t dream of trying to impersonate a police officer, Lestrade! I leave that to you. No, I simply wished to fetch you here, and this seemed as good a way as any. Besides, my little charade was in keeping with the whole tenor of this affair. Has it never struck you that there is a distinctly theatrical thread running right through this Whitechapel case? No? Well, no matter. Away with the theatre! Let us hear from the proponent of real life. What progress have you been making since we last met?’
Lestrade pulled out a cheap cigar and set it alight.
‘We are proceeding along various paths of enquiry too numerous to mention. I myself have been making progress in several directions at once, but although we have made great strides, we are not as yet in a position to take any definite steps –’
‘Cut it out, Lestrade. Are you any closer to catching this murderer than you were at the same time last month?’
‘It’s not as simple as you seem to think, Mr Holmes. Rome wasn’t –’
‘Have you made any progress in a month, Lestrade? Yes or no?’
‘We have managed to rule out some of the –’
‘Yes or no?’
Lestrade sucked hard at his cigar.
‘No. But we are hopeful that –’
‘Of course, Lestrade, of course. Hope springs eternal. But I fear that the patience of the British public, although great, is not infinite. Another pair of killings like the last and I imagine you may well be invited to consider the possibilities of a career with the North West Mounted Police.’††
The detective greeted this remark with a rueful expression which suggested that the idea was not altogether new to him.
‘There has been a certain amount of criticism, I cannot deny that. Every person in the land, from the humblest of Her Majesty’s subjects up to and including Herself, seems to feel they could do a better job of it than us. The fact is, Mr Holmes, we are being made the whipping-boys for this country’s sins. They’ve let Sodom and Gomorrah flourish here in England’s green and pleasant land, and they’ve looked the other way. Now this happens, and they take it out on us!’
‘Aha!’ cried Holmes. ‘I always thought I could detect traces of a Nonconformist upbringing in your character, Lestrade. But you must be careful, you know! Persons who go around muttering about Whitechapel being as the cities of the plain, and its inhabitants the accursed of the Lord, are very likely, these days, to find themselves the objects of suspicion. What was it he said? “I am down on whores, and I shan’t quit ripping them till I do get buckled.”’
Lestrade exhaled a cloud of rancid smoke.
‘I’m not down on whores, Mr Holmes. They’re a commodity like any other. But there’s no doubt that this killer can only work as he does because such commerce – and worse – is a fact of life in Whitechapel. That whole district is a criminal’s paradise! No one knows anything, no one cares to know anything, and no one would tell us if they did. It’s a point of honour with them to score off the police. Their idea of sport is to get drunk and knock down a constable. So how are we supposed to go to work? Quite frankly, I believe there’s only one way we’ll ever take this man, and that’s if we’re lucky enough to come on him while he’s actually killing one of them.’
These last words were spoken defiantly, Lestrade clearly expecting a sarcastic rejoinder. It was evidently much to his surprise that he found his old antagonist agreeing with him.
‘That is the first sensible thing I have heard any policeman say since these murders started. After all this eye-wash about following up leads and investigating clues and rounding up suspects and developing theories, it is really very refreshing to hear someone adopting a realistic attitude at long last. As you say, there is only one way to catch this man, and that’s red-handed. More port?’
‘With a dash of soda this time, if you please. I’m glad to see we are in agreement for once, Mr Holmes. It is too bad we can do nothing about it. Who’s to say when or where he will strike next?’
Holmes hovered by the side-board. He poured port for himself and me, and mixed Lestrade a brandy and soda.
‘I am,’ he replied as he brought the drinks.
Lestrade laughed politely. ‘Come now! We all admit that you are a very smart man, Mr Holmes, and can sometimes spot things that others are too busy to remark. But here you go too far!
How can you possibly know what this maniac will do next?’
‘Ah, the old sweet song!’ murmured Holmes. ‘From far and wide they come to behold what the Ripper hath wrought, and cry with one accord: “The work of a maniac!” However, let us suppose that you are right, and that this affair is all madness. If it is, there is still some considerable method in it.’
‘Ha! We all know about his methods!’
‘Now if we are to take the murderer in the act, we must first know where and when he will be at work. Let us look at his record thus far. All the murders have been committed within the territory bounded by Bishopsgate to the west, the Great Eastern railway to the north, Sidney Street in the east, and the Ratcliff Highway to the south. So much is obvious. Turning to the question of timing, it is also obvious that all the killings have taken place in the morning, between midnight and six o’clock to be precise. What may be less obvious is that there is a clear pattern linking the days on which a murder occurred.’
‘What?’
‘The first death was on the 7th of August,’ Holmes continued evenly. ‘On the 31st of the same month Nicholls was killed. Chapman died on the 8th of September, four weeks after Tabram and one week after Nicholls. Thus at that time the sequence ran: a murder, then three weeks’ lull, then another murder. But Stride and Eddowes were killed on the last day of September, which is to say three weeks after Chapman. With that the sequence repeats itself, enabling us to identify it as a simple alternation of one and three week periods, with a murder at the end of each.’
Lestrade had pulled out a pocket calendar, over which he bent in concentration. At length he looked up with a triumphant expression.
‘Ha! Your sequence no sooner gets started than it breaks down! It appears to have escaped you, Mr Sherlock Holmes, that there was no murder the week following the double killing! How does that fit in with your fine theory?’
Holmes smiled like a conjuror whose bluff has elicited the correct response from the crowd.
‘It fits perfectly, my dear Lestrade. You have no doubt heard of the exception that proves the rule? I admit that the absence of any attack on the 7th of October at first surprised me. But instead of rejecting the pattern which had begun to evolve, I reminded myself of a basic principle of our trade – that any single fact which apparently confutes a long chain of reasoning will invariably prove capable of some other interpretation. The lack of any murder that week was no accident but a necessary consequence of the pattern itself. Indeed, it would have been inexplicable if a killing had occurred.’
The Last Sherlock Holmes Story Page 7