The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes Page 13

  “How is our little press stunt coming along, Watson?” asked Holmes, still behind his array of smouldering tubes.

  “I believe the narrative of the builder shall be an adequate tale,” I replied.

  “Excellent. I had rather hoped that would take your fancy. I myself am rather fond of some of the puzzles and intricacies which the other tales contain; but I feel that your readers, who so mundanely insist upon the more superficial elements, would not be so impressed.”

  We were interrupted at this juncture by a soft knocking at the door and the entrance of Mrs Hudson, a thoroughly dishevelled look upon her motherly features.

  “I hope you do not expect me to navigate such a labyrinth of obstacles simply to bring you your breakfast, gentlemen? Even a German would be daunted by such a task,” she said with an air of impertinence.

  “Mrs Hudson, of course I would not ask you to brave the treacherous environment we have created. Watson is no longer performing any noteworthy task, so I am sure he will oblige your request.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” said she, awaiting my assistance as I cast my narrative in Holmes’s direction, “but I must say, Mr Holmes, I find it rather difficult to believe that Dr Watson can be held responsible for such chaos.”

  “You would find yourself rather surprised at what dear old Watson can be held accountable for,” said Holmes.

  “He is joking, of course, Mrs Hudson. He often finds it comforting to lower me to his standards,” I said, taking the tray from her hands and waiting for her to depart before turning back to Holmes. “Must you try and make Mrs Hudson regard me in the same manner in which she does you?”

  “Don’t be hysterical Watson.”

  “You know you can perform some menial tasks yourself,” I replied, dropping the tray upon the table.

  “If you can solve the mystery of this most illusive of substances, I would be more than happy to switch roles; but if memory serves me correctly, your expertise is in biology not chemistry, so I am afraid it is you who shall have to remain the wife in our relationship for the time being.”

  “If you could use some other metaphor, Holmes it would be appreciated. Mary is not so easily forgotten,” I replied tearing open the day’s paper, rather hurt by the callous and mechanical nature my friend could often display.

  “I do apologise for my lack of tact, Watson. Is there any news in the morning paper?”

  I admit that Holmes did not have my full attention, and his voice had become a rather distorted drone.

  “Watson?” he repeated, impatiently.

  “You have another correspondence from Jack the Ripper,” said I.

  “Ah, I was getting worried he would forget to write. What does darling Jack have to share with me this time?”

  “It reads as follows:

  ‘Holmes has returned! Now it’s all fair game,

  But the girl’s still Ripped, oh what a shame.

  The corpses are rising and I have my prize,

  He sits in a chair, thinks he’s so wise.

  You won’t find me there, still I roam free,

  Stay there too long, it’ll turn into a spree.

  I hear the people whisper, a case he can’t crack?

  Remembered forever…

  Outwitted by Jack.’”

  “That is all?” said Holmes finally.

  “That is all.”

  “It would seem our little bluff has been called before we even had chance to play our hand. Nevertheless, it has been time well spent. The substance upon the lips of the victim was tartar-emetic, a soluble white powder which contains antimony. It is practically tasteless, odourless and colourless. In sufficient quantities, it would produce vomiting and exhaustion. If administered over a long enough period of time, it would cause an unsuspicious death, and most would believe the murder to have been caused by a far more commonplace illness. For Jack the Ripper, it is the perfect substance; it would weaken the hostage and prevent any form of unnecessary and tedious struggle.”

  “I do not believe I have ever heard of such a substance,” said I, horrified at the further evil the Ripper was deploying.

  “Few physicians have. But if we are to be certain of our findings, we must pay a visit to the mortuary.”

  “The mortuary? But Holmes, it is a miracle you have managed to deduce what you have from such an inadequate sample, surely there will be none remaining by now.”

  “Right you are,” said he, putting on his travelling coat, “but there is one more unexpected side-effect such a substance has upon the body, and I will need your medical expertise to confirm my suspicions. We shall therefore first visit the mortuary before taking a rather unpleasant stroll around Whitechapel.”

  “For what purpose?” said I, collecting our revolvers from the desk.

  “We must play along with Jack for now. Clearly he wishes us to be out playing in the streets instead of locked away in our rooms. We may as well oblige him. We have no further cause for remaining in our lodgings, and if, by visiting the previous scenes, we conjure a distant memory or awaken a long forgotten instinct which throws us upon the path of enlightenment, it shall be a journey well spent.”

  Though Holmes was not bothered by such slander, I had grown rather tired of some of the snarling remarks on the street regarding our supposed involvement in the crimes of the very man we continued to pursue; and so was grateful he had chosen to have a cab called prior to our departure from Baker Street.

  We left the shelter of 221B swiftly, and as we rattled along in our carriage toward the East End, I spent the entirety of our journey in a state of anxious curiosity, trying to anticipate what side-effect this mysterious compound could cause. The poison itself seemed to be such an ideal substance for the task at hand that it was difficult to imagine what traces it could possibly have left almost a week after the last dosage had been administered.

  Since there is no public mortuary in Whitechapel, the body of our victim had been moved to a nearby workhouse infirmary upon Old Montague Street, which had a dead-house as part of its premises. Upon arrival, our view was dominated by a formidable sombre mass of grey stone. It was as if the building itself bore some of the psychological scars from the suffering that it contained. The arched windows were mere pockets of false-hope, admitting a light which could never inspire freedom into the hearts of the unfortunate souls who dwelled inside. Having found the entrance locked, we knocked firmly upon the large wooden door, and were unwelcomingly received by a rather crude and dishevelled-looking man.

  Usually Holmes’ status of consulting detective does not cause much of an issue, such is his reputation, but the cloud of suspicion which had begun to surround him in this dreadful business caused an unnecessary delay before we gained the information which we required. Upon our last visit to Old Montague Street, in 1888, the mortuary had been nothing more than an inadequately lit and unhygienic shed, but such had been the complaints that an improved, though still rather unkempt replacement, along with a new post-mortem area, had been constructed in the south-east corner of the premises.

  We gained access via an entrance in Thomas Street, and were shown into a dark room where the scent of the deceased instantly took us by the throat. The room was lit sporadically by wall-mounted oil-lamps, and the ceiling was curved into a large arch, causing shadows to form grotesquely around the room. This small enclave was filled with bodies of the recently departed laid out upon wooden frames and hidden beneath featureless white cloaks: thin, indiscriminate veils which separated life from death.

  Our host unfortunately did not know which of our anonymous collective would be the Ripper victim, although I scarcely imagined we would have trouble identifying her once we uncovered the correct veil. Holmes and I took a lamp each and set about our task of individually unmasking the dead. It was a most disturbing business. I pulled back one of the v
eils and found myself looking into eyes of a child who not so long ago could have been peacefully sleeping. She could have been dreaming of great adventures, sailing the many seas, running free and indulging in the many worldly fruits that can tantalise even the most pessimistic of minds. But now she had been mercilessly struck down, her once innocent features immersed into the lifeless stone, her playful laughter turned into silent screams.

  “Here we are, Watson,” said Holmes. Although I was not altogether surprised at his tone of muffled amusement, I was still agitated that he could be so insufferable in such surroundings. Nothing, however, could prepare me for the shock that awaited.

  “I know these suspicions are mere wives-tales, but you should really try to alter your usual manner - Holmes!” I cried in astonishment at the sight before me.

  There stood Sherlock Holmes, his triumphant smile barely visible in the darkness as he held back the veil and shone his lamp upon the face of the deceased woman. The face of the victim looked almost identical to when I had last laid my eyes upon her. “How can this be?”

  “I believed that the substance I had found contained antimony, which I knew if consumed in sufficient quantities prior to death, prevents the decomposition of the flesh, preserving the body. I therefore must insist upon your medical expertise and ask whether you believe the victim was likely to have been subjected to such a substance prior to her murder?”

  “Was this deception really necessary, Holmes? I was not expecting you to enjoy yourself so much upon this journey!”

  “Jack is having his fun, Watson; am I not entitled to some amusement of my own?”

  “I do not believe such behaviour is advisable, considering public suspicions. Do you really want murmurings to turn into outcry?”

  “The public will believe whatever is printed in our gloriously free press. For the time being, we have no choice but to accept their naivety and gullibility; but don’t worry, the time will come when they will look upon us favourably once more.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but you seem rather assured of yourself.”

  “We have our facts and we have our poison. Once we discover the identity of our victim, I am sure all will begin to fit into place. You forget that after all, we are hunting a man, not a demon. Men can always be caught.”

  It was clear to me, as it so often is, that Sherlock Holmes knew far more than he cared to divulge. In almost every case that I have had the privilege of sharing with him, rarely am I privy to the full extent of his theories until the very conclusion of our adventures: such is the life of befriending a brilliant mind, with an often irritating fondness for the theatrical. At least I could take comfort in the knowledge that the rest of our journey around Whitechapel, though distinctly unpleasant, would not contain any more of his ruses.

  I had accompanied Holmes in these parts upon countless occasions, but I was always struck by the social imbalance, which people do not always associate with such areas. One moment, usually upon one of the main streets, you could be in an area of what appeared to be satisfactory living standards, but a single turn down one of the many narrow dark and menacing alleys, and you would soon be amongst the very dregs of society. Filth and deprivation spilled out into the overcrowded streets, creating the impression of one large social-cesspool.

  Our journey was a relatively long and arduous one. Had it been determined by distance rather than by the chronology of the events, we would have been spared much time. However, Holmes insisted that we should not follow in the inept footsteps of our colleagues, but in the tracks of Jack the Ripper. Had our journey contained features of interest, I would present a much richer narrative, but to attempt such a claim would be an almost complete falsehood. It shall therefore suffice to scribe only the bare facts.

  Every murder took place in a quiet and secluded part of the district, but only in the case of Mary Jane Kelly did the Ripper act in complete privacy. Mitre Square represented the only area of relative affluence. Only outside the church upon Deal Street was there any evidence of a carriage; for all other murders, the Ripper arrived on foot and then disappeared silently into the night.

  Upon our return to Baker Street, Holmes entered our rooms in a fashion of marked irritability. Rarely had I seen him in such a state when distracted by the intellectual euphoria of a case.

  “Lestrade has left us a message,” said I, noticing a piece of paper upon the table, which Holmes had rather uncharacteristically ignored.

  “Is it yet further proof documenting his incompetence?” he barked.

  “Along those lines, yes. It states:

  ‘Dear Mr Holmes, Inspector Abberline and I have been unsuccessful in locating or discovering any knowledge of a currently missing woman previously of a comfortable background and who has recently fallen upon hard times. Our enquiry into any men of similar circumstance, whose spouse might have disappeared, has also been unsuccessful. There has been no news of any woman of notable class or wealth who has been kidnapped within the last year, held for ransom or otherwise. We shall visit Baker Street soon to discuss our next course of action. Lestrade.’

  “Yet more dead ends, Holmes. Were you ever confident that Lestrade and Abberline would be successful in such lines of enquiry?”

  “We must investigate and eliminate all possibilities, otherwise we shall never be successful in our search for the truth. After all, someone is dead,” said he, spreading a large and intricately detailed map of London across the table before lighting up his pipe. “There is nothing remarkable about any of the locations, Watson. Here, you see I have marked all the crime scenes, and there is nothing, not so much as a ritualistic symbol from an extinct civilisation. I have arranged all the letters of each address accordingly, and there is no hidden code, no secret, not even a childish riddle. There was previously a slight pattern which could be found in the measure in the dates between the murders, but now even that flimsiest of notions has been ripped from my hands. This anomaly is purely for the sake of being an anomaly. There is no logic, Watson!”

  “Perhaps that is reason in itself?” I offered. “That is the only conclusion the evidence suggests.”

  “Only the murders suggest such a theory. You neglect his knowledge of my survival, as well as the rather crude and unsubtle taunts which travel beyond the white cliffs of our great shores and broadcast around the world that Sherlock Holmes is being beaten by a savage and his blade.”

  “My dear Holmes, I know he taunts you but surely this is more complex than that? After all he did not communicate with you at all via any method, let alone public taunts, in 1888.”

  “I cannot say. Moriarty wove a web of crime encompassing all of London: he played his game and I played mine. Jack the Ripper is not so easy. Was he Moriarty, or, as I am now inclined to believe, an orchestrated illusion? All we know now is, only after Moriarty’s death and the return of Jack the Ripper does he care to taunt me; and not only this, but in a manner which suggests it was his motive all along. It does not add up.”

  “Holmes, have you entertained the possibility that Moriarty is not involved in this whole affair at all? What if Jack the Ripper is truly a deranged yet unknown surgeon, who only dared mock you after his success and your supposed demise?”

  “That is a possibility; you draw your conclusions firmly from the facts, but your theory neglects one crucial aspect: no mere slaughterer, no doctor with an imbalanced mind and murderous temperament could have known my suspicion of Moriarty. If you are correct and the complex riddle which I have spun is indeed far simpler, then I am afraid we have but one path available to us.”

  “Inspector Abberline knew of your suspicions,” I offered.

  “I know you are suspicious of the Inspector, and I admit your reasoning for being so is considerably less far-fetched than a lot of the woeful theories which emerge from Scotland Yard itself. We shall, of course, not rule out such a hypothesis, but I would
not make it the focus of our investigation. If Abberline is indeed the Ripper that would be a most unfortunate development, but our course of action would not be altered. If we cannot discover the Ripper’s identity through more conventional methods, we must revert back to the more crude option of catching him red-handed. Such a course of action is, as you appreciate, exceedingly difficult and almost certain to fail; but I begin to believe that we may be left with no other alternative. Should we fail, the most infamous criminal of our time will be allowed to sink back into the shadows.”

  “That is no option for me; we must see him hanged!” I cried.

  “I share your sentiments. Never has a man deserved the rope more, yet never has a man been further from such a fate, but I am afraid that unless our fortunes change, he may escape our grasp forever.”

  “If you can rid the world of Professor Moriarty, Holmes, I am certain you can banish Jack the Ripper back into which ever dark realm he was spawned.”

  “You flatter me, my dear fellow, but a spider and its web are always easier to locate than the solitary serpent.”

  At this juncture, we were interrupted by the sound of uninvited official footsteps upon the stairs; but, to both our surprise, it was neither Lestrade nor Abberline coming to discuss the somewhat deteriorating situation. Instead we were greeted by a young constable: Smith was his name, and his eyes twinkled with an eagerness suggestive of inexperience.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” said he, a slight quiver in his attempted impression at authority, “but I was told not to waste a second by Chief Inspector Abberline and Inspector Lestrade. They send word that they have caught Jack the Ripper. He is residing near a barber’s shop upon West Green Road, in southern Tottenham, which is where you shall find the Inspectors now. There is a carriage waiting outside if you are prepared to come right away.”