The Last Sherlock Holmes Story

by Michael Dibdin

  Lestrade shook his head wearily.

  ‘This is all Greek to me.’

  ‘Is it? Let’s see if I can’t provide you with a crib. The question is what happened to the victim of the 7th October. The answer is simply that she had already been murdered, on the 30th of September.’

  ‘The double murder!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Precisely! Two for the price of one. But Jack the Ripper is not a man to leave his books unbalanced. So to make up for his over-indulgence that bloody Sunday, he abstained the following week. Now then! Do you still think he is a maniac whose deeds are mere random impulses?’

  Lestrade wore the expression of one whose world is being taken apart piece by piece and reassembled upside down. He made counting gestures on his fingers. He gazed up at the ceiling. His lips moved soundlessly. At length he looked over at Holmes with a deep sigh.

  ‘So you are saying that this man, whoever he is, has taken it into his head to kill two prostitutes a month, the first after one week and the second three weeks later. Is that it?’

  ‘Not to kill, Lestrade. To mutilate! That is his desire. Killing the women is a mere preliminary, as one kills a goose for the table. If he were satisfied with killing, he would have gone straight home after cutting Stride’s throat. Instead, he exposed himself to enormous danger so that he might suitably butcher the woman in Mitre Square. Do you remember that message he left scrawled on the wall in Goulston Street – the one your ineffable superiors had erased before it could be photographed?’

  ‘“The Jews are not the men that will be blamed for nothing,”’ I quoted from memory. Holmes nodded.

  ‘There have been any number of attempts to explain those words,’ he went on. ‘The spelling of Jews – J,U,W,E,S – has been analysed as learnedly as if it were an Egyptian hieroglyph, though one might have thought that this man had already given us sufficient evidence of his penchant for eccentric spellings. But what no one has been able to demonstrate is who the Jews in question are, and what it is they are to be blamed for.’

  ‘And I suppose you find it all very simple,’ Lestrade muttered.

  Holmes shrugged nonchalantly. ‘The truth is invariably simple. The problem is clearing away the undergrowth of falsehood. The Jews referred to are the inhabitants of that courtyard in Berner Street, and more particularly Louis Diemschutz, the hawker whose untimely return home prevented the killer from mutilating Stride’s body. What they are to be blamed for is the heinous crime of upsetting our man’s timetable, so that he was forced to move his next killing forward a week. He was saying, in effect: “I apologise for the confusion, but it wasn’t my fault – those Jews are to blame.”’

  Lestrade was by now swaying in his seat, like some punch-drunk boxer.

  ‘But how could he know the fellow was a Jew?’ he croaked. ‘How could he possibly know?’

  ‘Because the courtyard is occupied by a notorious Socialists’ Club run by and for European Jews. It is a hundred to one that anyone coming or going there at that time of night will be Jewish. Which all goes to prove, if any further proof were needed, how well our man knows his Whitechapel.’

  At this, Lestrade’s resistance utterly collapsed. He looked helplessly at my friend.

  ‘What do we do?’

  Holmes sprang to his feet.

  ‘We patrol! We shut up Whitechapel like a cage! According to the sequence, the next killing is due within a few days. But we can determine the timing even more closely than that. For one thing, the murders always take place at the weekend – with the exception of Tabram, which I am inclined to see as something of a prentice job. To be even more specific, the death days – again leaving Tabram out of account – have been Friday, Saturday, and Sunday respectively. All of which suggests that the attempt will be made on Monday. In any event, only four nights are involved, and only four hours a night. If we cannot adequately patrol an area of one square mile for that period of time, I think we had better retire and have done with it.’

  Lestrade was now on familiar ground again, and he nodded with more assurance.

  ‘It can be done.’

  ‘It must be done, and done consummately! I shall call at the Yard this afternoon at five with details of such measures as I consider necessary. In the meantime you must summon every available man on the force and have them ready to commence duty at midnight.’

  The official scratched his ear uneasily.

  ‘I’ll certainly do whatever I can, Mr Holmes. I am quite happy to accept your lead myself, you understand, but my superiors –’

  ‘Will back you all the way. You may be interested to learn that I now enjoy the rank of Acting Chief Inspector in your own division. As you said, criticism of the way the police have been handling this affair extends to the highest quarters. My brother Mycroft informed me last week that it was the wish of one more accustomed to command that I should exert my energies in this regard. It has been my pleasure as well as my duty to obey. I made it a condition, however, that I might implement just such measures as I have mentioned. The appropriate arrangements have been made, and you need therefore have no qualms about carrying out my instructions.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Holmes. I quite understand. I’ll expect you about five, sir. Good day.’

  Never had I seen Lestrade so amenable. Holmes had also remarked the change in the policeman’s manner.

  ‘By Jove, Watson!’ said he, once we were alone again. ‘If this ghastly business has achieved nothing else, it seems at least to have taught the Yard its natural limits. However, I have no very lively hopes that the effect will last. And now would you be so good as to summon our landlady? I am in urgent need of a bath, some hot food, and a few hours’ undisturbed sleep. I have been deprived of all three just lately. In fact it has been quite an eventful week, what with one thing and another. One of my little “Holmes from home” was set alight in the early hours of yesterday morning. No great damage was done, but I lost my night’s sleep in consequence.’

  ‘Good God! You mean the fire was deliberately started?’

  ‘I think we may assume so, in view of the three other attempts that have been made on my life recently. Any other hypothesis would seem to introduce a monstrous factor of sheer coincidence. Professor Moriarty is not a man to let grass grow under his feet! He first attempted to run me down with a delivery van. My reactions were too quick, but shortly thereafter a brick fell from a building as I was passing and almost scrambled my brains. His latest effort was delegated. I was walking down a secluded street in Islington late last night, when a pair of ruffians assaulted me with cudgels.’

  ‘What did I tell you? You should have kept me at your side! You might have been killed!’

  ‘Oh, they weren’t very competent ruffians. I exercised some of my singlestick skills on them. One fled and the other succumbed. I barked my knuckles, as you see, but I’m otherwise none the worse.’

  ‘But next time he will send more men, and better! You must have protection, Holmes! You must not go out alone! I absolutely forbid it!’

  Holmes smiled at my vehemence.

  ‘My dear fellow! In a moment you will be saying: “As your physician –” But you need not distress yourself. Moriarty does not mean to kill me yet.’

  ‘But you told me

  ‘I told you that there have been attempts on my life. Attempts, Watson! If Moriarty wanted me killed, I should be reposing in some gutter by now. No, he only means to keep me on my guard. He is playing for his life after all. It would hardly be fair if I did not stand to lose as much.’

  I shook my head in disapproval.

  ‘I do not see how you can speak of playing fair with this kind of man. Why do you allow him his sport? Why do you delay? Why not tell Lestrade and have him arrested? Then we shall all be safe – you, me, and all these poor women.’

  ‘I understand your feelings, Watson. I have felt the same. But it cannot be. How can we arrest Moriarty? What grounds have we? On the basis of what evidence are we to charge him? My suspicions ar
e at bottom all inference and supposition, and if I were to mention them to Lestrade he would laugh in my face. But Moriarty would not laugh! He would summon his legal advisers and obtain his unconditional release, and then his revenge would be dreadful to behold. No, let us be grateful that we know the devil with whom we have to deal, and that he is content to fight this duel with me. Let us observe the rules of honour, and press our advantage home. Believe me, Watson – therein lies our only hope of smashing this man’s tyranny.’

  I was reluctantly compelled to admit the force of Holmes’s arguments. But before he retired I had wrung from him a promise that I might accompany him at all times throughout the perilous hours that lay ahead. No longer would I be content to sit patiently at home awaiting the outcome. When Holmes left for Scotland Yard that afternoon, I went with him, a revolver in my pocket and in my heart the determination to stick close to his side wherever he might go and whatever might befall. I have often wondered to what extent the holocaust that was to come was due precisely to my success in this endeavour.

  * King’s Pyland stables on Dartmoor was the scene of the disappearance of Silver Blaze.

  † Sewer scavengers, or toshers, made their living by entering the London sewer system and sieving for items of value. Those who survived the tides and the rats could make as much as £2 a week.

  ‡ The Lyceum – ‘third pillar from the left’ – was the spot assigned by Thaddeus Sholto for Mary Morstan to meet his representative, thereby initiating the series of events which were to lead to Watson’s engagement.

  § Now Great Portland Street station, on the Metropolitan and Circle lines.

  ¶ William Palmer (1825–56), doctor and poisoner, and Charles Peace (1832–79), burgler and murderer.

  || Field-marshal Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher (1742–1819). The remark was allegedly made during a visit to London in 1814.

  ** Inspector Abberline was in charge of the detectives investigating the Whitechapel murders, and would thus have been Lestrade’s immediate superior at this time.

  †† The North West Mounted Police became the more familiar Royal Canadian Mounted Police in 1904.

  Three

  A close account of the next four nights would offer only needless drudgery for writer and reader alike. Indeed, without considerable invention on my part it would not even be possible. I was too tired and dispirited to keep my notes, and my memory retains nothing beyond a general sense of weary futility. Our good fortune was restricted to the weather, which was unseasonably mild. As Lestrade sarcastically remarked, if one had to search Whitechapel by night for someone who wasn’t there one couldn’t wish for better weather, considering the time of year.

  Holmes’s plan had been to swamp the entire area with police. He had calculated that the murderer would require at least ten minutes to kill and mutilate his victim, and he had accordingly drawn up a system of patrols which left no street unvisited for longer than that. The net was duly fashioned and thrown over Whitechapel. The three of us established ourselves at the Commercial Street police station and awaited developments. There were none. Holmes and I made outings from time to time to ensure that the patrols were observing the specified timetable. Occasionally a man would be a minute or two out, but we found no significant gaps in the mesh. There was simply nothing to be caught. By six o’clock on Monday morning it was clear that all our efforts had been in vain. The patrols were disbanded and we three assembled before a waning fire at the police station, grasping mugs of lukewarm tea. Lestrade was the only one to display any animation, and this was of a malicious cast. As the nights had gone by without incident the little official’s habitual swank and swagger had gradually replaced the awed subservience to which he had been reduced by the brilliance of Holmes’s arguments that Thursday in Baker Street. Thus far he had said nothing, no doubt fearing that his hated rival might yet be proved right at the last. But now Holmes’s time was up, and Lestrade turned the tables with vindictive relish.

  ‘What do you say now, Mr Sherlock Holmes? What has become of your blessed sequence with everything worked out to the last detail, as if it was the tides we were waiting for and not a homicidal maniac? Admit it, you have failed!’

  Holmes’s reply was barely audible.

  ‘On the contrary, Inspector, I have succeeded all too well.’

  ‘Oh ho, I see! That’s the way we play, is it? Heads you win and tails we lose! I only wish my job was that easy. But it’s not you will have to take the blame for this fiasco. You who are always so careful to keep your name out of the press! Very wise, I’m sure! A fine time of it I’m in for, trying to explain why every spare man on the force has been pounding the beat in Whitechapel these four nights. Mind you, there was only one thing wrong with your timetable, Mr Holmes. No one told the murderer about it! Ha ha! That’s where you went wrong! You told us when the next murder was due, but you forgot to tell him! You should have told him too, Mr Holmes, and then he might have obliged us after all!’

  To my surprise, Holmes did not rise to these barbs. He listened in silence, his head bowed. It was an odd attitude for one who normally impressed all and sundry with his masterful manner. But clearly the setback he had received had shaken him severely. Lestrade was not deterred by the lack of any response. Long and bitter were the tirades he unleashed. He recalled Holmes’s overweening confidence, his arrogant refusal to consider the proposals of others, his contempt for the traditional techniques of investigation long proved effective – in practice, mind you, not in some smoky sitting-room! – by the appointed guardians of law and order of whom he had the honour and, yes, the pleasure to be one. When he finally recognised that my friend was not going to be drawn, Lestrade revealed his ace. He took a file from his desk and withdrew a sheet of paper which he handed to us in turn. It was the original of a letter which had been published some weeks earlier in the press. It ran as follows:

  From hell

  Mr Lusk

  Sor

  I send you half the kidne I took from one woman presarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer.

  Signed Catch me when

  you can

  Mishter Lusk

  I must add that this transcription cannot possibly do justice to the impression produced by the original. The letter was written in a crabbed and violent hand, and was exceedingly difficult to make out. It was the most utterly malevolent-looking piece of writing I have ever set eyes on. Holmes glanced at it perfunctorily, and then handed it back to Lestrade without comment. The official held it up before our eyes.

  ‘You remember the other two letters we received, the ones signed “Jack the Ripper”?’ said he. ‘They were genuine enough, for the writer knew more than he should about those murders. However, this letter here is genuine too!’

  ‘How can you tell?’ I demanded, since Holmes remained silent.

  ‘Good question, Dr Watson! I’m glad you asked. How can we tell? Enclosed with this letter was part of a human kidney, just like it says. Mr Lusk, who heads the vigilantes, sent it to the City Police, and they sent it on to the London Hospital. There it was looked at by the pathologist, who declares there is no doubt that it came from the murdered woman Eddowes. The letter must therefore be from her murderer. But as you can see for yourselves, the writing is totally different from all the other specimens, including that on the wall in Goulston Street.’

  He paused significantly. Holmes yawned and consulted his watch. ‘And what conclusion do you draw from that?’ he murmured.

  ‘Why, surely a smart man like yourself doesn’t need to ask me that!’ cried the detective with a great show of surprise. ‘The conclusion is quite obvious, as far as I can see.’

  ‘No doubt, Inspector, but I have never been able to determine just how far that is. At all events, what do you conclude from the difference in the hands?’

  ‘But it can mean only one thing! There must be two murderers!’

  T
he slight figure in the raffish check suit visibly preened with triumph. His eyes glinted with pride. I noticed, not for the first time, how remarkably close-set they were.

  Holmes got to his feet. He fetched his coat and put it on. ‘Well, I think we should be going. Are you ready, Watson? Many thanks for your hospitality, Inspector. You will doubtless present us in due course with an opportunity of returning it.’

  Lestrade could scarcely control his fury. He danced from one foot to the other, waving the letter at Holmes.

  ‘Is that your reply? Is that all you have to say? Well that’s what I call grateful! Your fancy theory goes all to smash, and when I offer you a helping hand you haven’t a word to say!’

  ‘As a matter of fact I have several, but I very much doubt whether you would wish to hear them. Good morning, Inspector. Come, Watson!’

  We walked briskly to Shoreditch High Street, where we found a cab to take us home. Not one word would Holmes say, and I was too exhausted to make conversation. As soon as we arrived at 221b, Holmes disappeared into his room, locking the door after him. For my part, I stretched out on the sofa and leafed through the papers. Within a few minutes I dozed off, and slept until I was awakened by the maid come to dust.

  At lunch I was both surprised and delighted to find that Holmes was once more his usual urbane self. He dispatched Billy to Dolamore’s for a bottle of hock, and while we ate and drank he held forth on a number of subjects ranging from the art of the troubadours to the possibility of using electricity as a means of capital punishment. He did not mention the subject that was, however, uppermost in both our minds. When we were both settled before the fire with our cigars, I decided that the time had come to grasp the nettle.