The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes Read online

  “Thank you, constable,” replied Holmes. “We shall come immediately. I am glad we shall travel by carriage, for the likelihood of your superiors getting the better of me in such a deliciously complicated case is a trifle overwhelming.”

  Our journey was spent in a rather tense silence. For almost the entire duration, Holmes was consumed by a restless agitation, the slender tips of his long fingers not resting in their customary position just beneath his chin, but consistently patting together upon his lap.

  “Holmes, if you are confident that the Inspectors have not bested you, why are you in a state of the most apparent frustration?” I enquired, my patience finally reaching its end.

  “Guilt and truth are two entirely separate entities, Watson,” said he, turning to face me with a touch of apprehension in his voice. “The suspect whom the Inspectors believe to be Jack the Ripper is almost certainly not our man: I base my assumption purely upon the basis that is was they who caught him. Darling Jack is perhaps too cunning and devious to be caught by anyone, let alone the bumbling and incompetent prowess of the Lestrade and Abberline. That unfortunately does not mean, my dear fellow, that a case cannot be put forth against the suspect. If Lestrade and Abberline have what they consider sufficient evidence against this man, they will arrest him and they will attempt to prosecute him. They may not even believe entirely in his guilt, but such is the nature of the human condition that glory and vanity will cloud their judgment. They define their success according to a conviction, Watson: I define mine according to the truth. These principles do not only work in tandem but often in parallel.”

  “Surely they would not wish to hang an innocent man just to claim an ending to this chapter?” said I, disgusted at such a notion.

  “That will be dependant upon the case they can formulate, and their belief in this man’s guilt.”

  “Here we are, gentlemen,” said the driver as we pulled up outside a small barber’s shop. The street was narrow and uninviting, and though there was no apparent cause for such trepidations, it inspired a feeling of ill-will. Wealth was clearly not earned in abundance in such a neighbourhood, but it was clear that money could be earned if you were in a suitable trade.

  We exited the carriage swiftly, and Smith immediately escorted us down a small passageway, the odour of damp brick pressing down upon us, as if the walls themselves were closing in. We were soon free from this unpleasant corridor, only to find ourselves climbing a treacherous flight of stairs. Mercifully, our journey soon terminated, as we stopped upon threshold of the suspect’s quarters. Upon entering, I noticed that the room was small and sparsely furnished: there was a bed, a table and a lamp; covering these essentials were numerous personal items. The walls were bleak, the curtain no more than a ragged old sheet. Sitting upon the bed was a man with piercing blue eyes, and a formidable moustache: his features were nothing short of devilish. Upon the table lay a black top hat, behind the door a long black coat. He wore fashionable trousers, a white shirt and black tie, and patent boots. Filling the room were Inspectors Abberline and Lestrade, as well as Constable Warrington, who stood commandingly over the suspect.

  “Well, Lestrade, Abberline, who have we here? Jack the Ripper, I presume. How thrilling it is to finally make your acquaintance,” said Holmes, glancing around the room before cordially extending his hand.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Mr Holmes,” said he, in a deep, grumbling Eastern-European accent.

  “Jack the Ripper, a Polish immigrant: that will appeal to the minds of our social Darwinists and adherers to the fallibility of the English class system. Of course he was an immigrant, they will proclaim! No Englishman, not even one of our lowliest peasants, could have committed such atrocities! Wouldn’t you agree, Abberline?”

  “It certainly will appeal, Mr Holmes, and for good reason!” barked Abberline, sensing that Holmes was not going to be easily convinced.

  “Now now, Inspector, you should not be so narrow in your suspicions. If Watson and I can be suspected of being Jack, who is to say that even you are innocent? Now, gentlemen, please present me with the facts.”

  “This, Mr Holmes, is George Chapman,” said Lestrade.

  “Would I be correct in my deduction that this man is no relation to Annie Chapman, and also has multiple identities?”

  “May I enquire how you know that information?”

  “The man is Polish and has coined a new name, Lestrade. His choice of a commonly found family name is presumably so he can simply be lost amongst the numbers. There is no reason for him to be related to Annie Chapman, and his features bare no resemblance to her whatsoever. Please continue.”

  “Well, nonetheless, you are right, sir. He is also known as Severin Klosowski, Ludwig Zagowski and Smith. He has posed as an American - ”

  “A Roman Catholic and a Jew,” finished Holmes.

  “That is correct. You are familiar with our prisoner, then?”

  “By no means, I had simply observed the shape of a kippah protruding from underneath that pile of clothes upon the floor, while the suspect is currently wearing a distinctively Catholic cross around his neck.”

  “Ah yes, you are quite right. I thought for a moment you were about to reveal you had your line upon our catch this entire time,” chuckled Lestrade.

  “There is still ample time for me to cast your fish back into the sea, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “I have heard this man’s various identities. Please provide a case before we decide what is to become of this most vicious of creatures.”

  “Mr Chapman is a learned man of medicine,” injected Abberline. “He studied in Poland before coming to England at the conclusion of 1887, and is therefore more than capable, on an anatomical front, of committing the murders which we have seen. Mr Chapman also has a noted history of violence toward women, as well as what can be described as an insatiable appetite for the pleasures of the female sex.”

  “Indeed,” said Holmes, closely scrutinising the man during every word of Abberline’s account.

  “Our suspect,” Abberline continued, “had not long been in residence in our capital before we experienced the horrors of 1888. At the time of what I consider to be the first murder, Mr Chapman was residing in George Yard Whitechapel Road, a mere stone’s throw away from where the body of Martha Tabram was found. Regardless of our conflicting views upon that particular matter, Mr Holmes, you will have undoubtedly deduced that this was nonetheless a perfect location as a base within the Whitechapel area.”

  “Have you interviewed Mr Chapman’s wife?” asked Holmes, to the astonishment of all in the room.

  “We have,” said Abberline, regaining his composure. “I left her with one of my men while we awaited your presence.”

  “Were you able to extract any useful information from her?”

  “Only that she claims Mr Chapman was with her upon the night of the latest murder. But that is yet to be proved; she could easily be protecting her husband,” answered Lestrade.

  “Mr Chapman,” said Holmes, eyes still transfixed upon the suspect. “Perhaps you could be so kind as to enlighten us all as to why you failed to mention to the Inspectors here that your current spouse is not the same woman as in 1888?”

  “How the devil did you know that?” snarled Chapman.

  “I will say nothing other than that you would make quite a terrible cards player. Now, before we continue, is your previous wife still alive?”

  “She is.”

  “Do you know where she resides?”

  “I do.”

  “Please divulge such information, Mr Chapman: it will make our job much easier. I should hate to see the authorities step outside, Watson is really rather disgusted by this whole affair and was informing me just this morning upon new methods of inflicting excruciating pain. Of course, as a doctor, he is also privy to all the nasty little tricks to keep the victim conscious
for a sufficient duration of un-pleasantries. I imagine Jack the Ripper would be an ideal test candidate.”

  “She lives with her sister and my daughter, Cecilia, at 26 Scarborough Street.”

  “Lestrade,” said Holmes, removing a sheet paper from his coat and penning a brief note, “send a plain-clothed officer round and have him deliver this to the former Mrs Chapman. But for now, pray continue with your narrative, Inspector Abberline.”

  “As I mentioned, Mr Chapman was ideally situated to carry out the murders. But, what is more intriguing, is that in 1891, the year of your supposed demise, Mr Holmes, our man relocated to America, and more specifically, to New York. It therefore may not come as a great shock if I were to inform you that soon after landing in New York, a series of rather shocking and disturbing murders took place of an all too familiar nature. Not only this, but it appears that Mr Chapman has not been long returned to our great nation. He re-emerged in the summer of 1892, a period that curiously coincides with the ending of the New York murders.”

  “I wasn’t there yet, I was still on the boat,” Chapman gruffly interrupted. “You can’t prove any of that, and you know it.”

  “Do you have an explanation for his apparent hibernation between 1892 and now?” said Holmes, ignoring the suspect.

  “Not yet. Perhaps he simply wished to allow the waters to quieten down before he rocked the boat once more.”

  “It would seem you have a somewhat coherent theory, Inspectors,” said I, in response to what appeared to be a far more convincing suspect than I had anticipated.

  “Indeed, I am also impressed,” said Holmes, beginning to pace up and down the cramped room. “However, may I enquire into the whereabouts of your facts? Your theory is an elegant one, but it will not bear scrutiny unless firmly reinforced. Not even you, Lestrade, can arrest a man based purely upon the shaky grounds of coincidence.”

  “Coincidence is a shaky ground now, is it, Mr Holmes?” said Lestrade, irritated at the smirk now upon Chapman’s face. “It’s alright for you to throw such notions in our face but when it is used to convict a man you failed to get to first, we must tread carefully. How rich indeed.”

  “I do not have to carry out the formalities of the law, Lestrade. Now, your evidence, gentlemen,” retorted Holmes.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr Holmes,” said Abberline, withdrawing from his pocket a steel box similar in length to a cigarette case, though slightly wider. “Here is all the evidence we need.”

  Holmes took the box and examined it carefully, holding it inches from his nose. Satisfied with his findings, he carefully flicked the small latch upon the side and examined the contents. To an ignorant observer, he may have just examined a featureless piece of wood, such was the lack of expression upon his face. But with what I noticed to be the vaguest hint of an understanding smile, he closed the lid and handed me the box. It was lighter than I expected, and the metal was cool upon my skin. I imitated Holmes’s action but could deduce no useful information from the container itself and carefully opened the latch to reveal the contents inside.

  I had fully anticipated the kind of evidence which awaited me, but this did not prevent a small feeling of repulsion. Lying inside were four slender fingers and a thumb, delicately cleaned and laid out to resemble a hand. Upon the fourth finger was a small ring, constructed using almost worthless metal, yet manipulated in such a way to suggest it was the work of a once masterful craftsman.

  “I assume these fingers match those missing from our victim?” I asked.

  “Fingers?” said Chapman, a note of anxiety in his voice for the first time since our arrival. “What are you talking about? What fingers?”

  “You know full well what we are talking about Mr Chapman,” replied Abberline. “The missing fingers of our victim, found in the home of a man with a history which is a little too dark and a little too coincidental for my liking!”

  “He’s put those in here!” Chapman cried, only just being held at bay by Constable Warrington.

  “And may I enquire how you discovered your suspect?” said Holmes.

  “We had a letter from a rather concerned citizen who lives around these parts,” said Abberline, which seemed sufficient to quell any rebellion left in the suspect. “He told us that he is well acquainted with Mr Chapman’s wife, and had not seen her for some days. Upon his enquiry as to her condition and whether he would be allowed to visit her, he was met with a very curt response. He alerted one of our men, who came here straightaway, to find Mrs Chapman being held captive in a most unpleasant manner. You see Mr Holmes, Mr Chapman’s been poisoning his wife with quite a familiar substance: though I’m sure a clever fellow such as yourself can figure that one out. It was upon arrival and after a bit of background research that we discovered the true nature of our prisoner. I searched the place while Warrington kept guard over our man in here. I found the fingers under a loose floorboard, but thought I would wait for the arrival of the great Sherlock Holmes before unveiling them,” sneered Abberline gleefully.

  “I see. In that case I must congratulate you upon the discovery of our first genuine suspect gentlemen,” said Holmes, turning to leave. “I am indeed most impressed with your work; however, I must urge a word of caution for you not to proceed too hastily.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr Holmes,” said Abberline, a look of pure fury upon his face. “This is not merely a suspect. We have conclusive proof that this man, George Chapman, is Jack the Ripper! Did you not hear the facts?”

  “I heard the facts, Inspector Abberline, but perhaps I was the only one who was listening. Your man is a prime candidate, that I do not dispute, and perhaps a jury may find him guilty. But pray, answer me this: upon the night of the double murder, Jack the Ripper murdered a woman, was interrupted, fled across London, and then mutilated another. After this, he carried a piece of blood-stained apron, whilst surely covered in blood himself, back across the city, where he left the evidence in an alleyway. He then purposefully risked being sighted in order to scribe a message upon a wall, loosely inciting blame upon the Jews, before disappearing into the night. Not only did the Ripper achieve this, but did so whilst evading capture from the police; avoided reliable detection from a witness, and left purposefully inadequate clues which only suggested falsities, while leaving none which would reveal his true identity. You are now telling me gentlemen, the same man sits before us, finally incriminated, because he could not be bothered to adequately hide or dispose of a few fingers within the confines of his own home?”

  “He was bound to get too arrogant after a while!” cried Lestrade.

  “Whatever his other flaws, complacency does not appear to be something Jack the Ripper has ever been guilty of. For instance, we still are no closer to identifying our victim; we have a body in Whitechapel with missing fingers: these fingers then just happen to turn up in the home of a rather convenient suspect. You claim they can convict this man, but in reality they tell us nothing and could have easily been planted in this room. Other than the poison, how can you link Mr Chapman to the most recent murder, when we have no clues as to her identity? Can you prove that he had arrived in America before the New York atrocities? Can you prove his whereabouts upon the night of the previous five murders? Is the alibi given by his wife the truth? You must be certain of the facts before you proceed.”

  “Preposterous!” interrupted Abberline. “We have conclusive evidence that this man is guilty. We may not have investigated all lines of enquiry yet, but I assure you once we have you will eat your words, Mr Holmes! Then perhaps you will be man enough to admit that Lestrade and I have got the better of you this time.”

  “I am simply voicing my concerns, gentlemen,” remarked Holmes coolly. “I believe for an Inspector to begin the formal procedures of the law before gathering all of the facts is a crime in itself. Proceed as you see fit, but I must warn you that I shall not be privy to your pro
secution if you act before you have a complete understanding of the situation. I will not aid in any man being wrongfully sent to the gallows. I shall await your further findings with a keen ear, but for now I must return to Baker Street for an interview with the former Mrs Chapman.”

  Chapter VIII - Counting the Cards

  I often find myself gazing out onto the everyday life which so readily passes by our rooms at 221B. Observing the constant stream of human activity is a pastime of simplicity, and offers an effect upon the mind similar to any meditation. The majority are dictated by profession, their stride urgent and full of purpose; while a fortunate few simply saunter by through course of leisure. Occasionally one of the crowd will stop upon our threshold, shuffle their feet, brush their coat or indulge in some other form of stress-relieving ritual before there is a soft ring of the bell, followed inevitably by a distinctive set of footsteps upon the stair: authoritative, tentative, blustering or casual; all for the express purpose of a consultation with Sherlock Holmes. The variation in step naturally reflects not only the attire but also the manner of the guest.

  Having been an intimate friend of Holmes for so many years, one begins to develop a keen sense of deduction regarding a person prior to what most believe to be the necessity of actually laying eyes upon them: speed, volume, pitch; all give distinct clues as to the temperament and wealth of prospective clients. As a rule, unannounced visitors carry themselves in a way which suggests they are desperately clutching to the final tether of their wits. For these poor souls, Holmes is their last fading glimmer of hope: a flicker of light so faint upon the horizon, so tantalisingly real yet distant that such a projection is often self-diagnosed as a mirage; a last cruel trick of the mind before being swept into a swirling damnation of eternal despair. Only upon very rare occasions have I witnessed Holmes cast away such cases, for even if he is not willing to become actively involved, he will, as matter of course, offer advice of such effortless elegance that our guest will leave in a condition of complete disbelief: astonished that the solution to what must have previously seemed an impossibly intricate problem, could ever have been so beautifully simple.