The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes Read online

  Being in the privileged position I am, I have witnessed Holmes at his best upon countless occasions, but it would be a total fallacy to claim such a picture as the ready norm of our life together. He often bemoans tranquillity as completely insufferable, insisting that his mind needs constant stimulation to prevent it rebelling against stagnation. Though the chemical solution found in his tubes is preferable to those in his needle, he is still testing to live with.

  For days now, Holmes had been locked away in his room, a great blaze of smoke pouring constantly from his pipe. I heard him marching endlessly up and down at an often frantic pace. The only intervals I observed in such behaviour were during rather curious periods of low mutterings and theatrical cries; his disposition had taken on such a disturbing turn that one would guess he had either taken to the consumption of a very powerful and dangerous hallucinogenic, or was rehearsing for some twisted and obscene stage production of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

  During this time, Holmes received only a single visitor; all others having been abandoned, left desperate and alone. Lucy Chapman had arrived a few hours after our return to Baker Street. She was a slight woman with a subtle beauty that one felt could be enhanced significantly through change of circumstance. Though it was clear her blouse and skirt were her only suitable garments for such a visit, she wore a stern expression, which instantly informed us that she was a proud woman. One gained the impression that she was quite glad to be rid of her former husband, and had no desire to be re-entangled in any of his affairs.

  Despite the rather more important issue at hand, I could not help but muse to myself how such a woman became wed to a man like George Chapman.

  “Mrs Chapman? I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson, please take a seat,” said Holmes though much more impatiently than his usual manner.

  “Thank you Mr Holmes,” she said accepting his invitation. “Your note said that you wished to discuss an urgent matter of delicacy with me?”

  “That is right: it concerns your former husband, who is currently being detained by the police.”

  “I do not wish to involve myself in the affairs of that man ever again,” she replied coldly.

  “Quite understandable, I only ask you to clarify one or two details. We have heard that he is something of a womanizer, was this the case during your marriage and specifically during 1888?”

  “It was.”

  “So it was not a rare occurrence for him to be absent from your lodgings during the night?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Now onto your travels,” Holmes continued, ignoring Mrs Chapman’s raised eyebrows at his unusual response. “Do you recall a set of highly violent murders occurring in New York, similar to that of Jack the Ripper, around the time of your arrival?”

  “Jack the Ripper?” she said, a dawn of understanding beginning to seep across her features. “No, I believe those crimes took place while we were still on our ship. It may interest you to know though Mr Holmes, that my reason for returning alone from America, was because my former husband threatened me with a large blade, and threatened to sever my head from my shoulders.”

  “Do you have anything else to share with us?”

  “I believe that is all.”

  Such was Holmes’s mood he merely rose from his seat, and tossed her a sovereign.

  “Watson will show you the door,” said he, not caring so much as to mask his disappointment, before sinking back into the depths of his tobacco-filled cocoon.

  “I do apologise for my friend’s behaviour,” I said gently, escorting Mrs Chapman down stairs. “As you can imagine he is under a great deal of stress, and is often far more courteous to his guests, especially those who aid him in his investigations.”

  “It is quite understandable Dr Watson,” she replied, turning to me with a reassuring smile. “If you have had the misfortune to meet my former husband, then you are more than aware I have had to deal with a great deal worse than curt dismissal.”

  I waited with Mrs Chapman and watched as the hansom took her away from Baker Street. When I returned upstairs Holmes remained in his room, and I had barely a fleeting glance of him over the next few days. If he was not consumed by his own thoughts in the haze of his quarters, he was in an almost identical state at Pall Mall, lost in a world of schemes, logistics and tedium with Mycroft. Never have I known the two enigmatic siblings to spend such vast quantities of time together, but such was the scale of the problem before them, I was convinced it would require the utmost of both men to conjure a tangible solution to this darkest of puzzles.

  I had no interest in suffering the condescension which I was likely to be subjected to when in the presence of two Holmes, and instead decided to be the Baker Street representative at the trial of George Chapman. Holmes, already convinced of the outcome, refused to attend; but I at least wished to witness this most historic of events. I do not believe there is a single man who could have elicited such a public outcry; perhaps only if Napoleon himself had been made to stand trial could such heights of widespread indignation have been achieved.

  The galleries were full: the streets packed with thousands of fascinated onlookers, all desperate to lay eyes on the man who could well be Jack the Ripper. I learnt from Lestrade that Chapman was detained in solitary confinement in the Tower before being moved in the dead of night to the Old Bailey, where he was once again placed under lock and key. The legal proceedings were completely formulaic, and little would be gained from scribing such tedious details; however, there are two aspects of interest, which gained much attention at the time, and which I shall include in this chronicle.

  The first remarkable feature, so far as the public were concerned, was that Sherlock Holmes would not only be absent from the viewing balcony, but more significantly, he would not be appearing for the prosecution. Holmes’s relationship with the force, though occasionally a little jaded, had always been one of courtesy and respect: he had no interest in personal glory, and made it a matter of insistence that his name should not be mentioned in any instance, save for my narratives. The Chapman trial was remarkable, as it marked the only occasion that Sherlock Holmes had to publicly separate himself from the side of the authorities. As to be expected, the reaction was one of confused indignation. How could the man who many considered to be the authority on criminal activity, a man who was known to be working alongside Inspectors Lestrade and Abberline, not be appearing for the prosecution? Seeds of doubt had been planted into fertile ground before Chapman had even risen from his chair; if Sherlock Holmes did not believe in the man’s guilt, how could he possibly be guilty?

  It was a decisive and fatal blow to the authority and integrity of Inspector Abberline’s case: never have I seen lines of such pure animosity dominate a man’s face when Holmes announced his decision. The terrible contortion was sufficient in itself to quell any doubts I had harboured about the plausibility of Inspector Abberline being capable of performing the violence of Jack the Ripper.I was overcome by a mixture of pity and incredulity as I observed the manner in which Abberline spat retorts at Holmes in a truly monstrous fashion. My sympathy derived simply out of the anguish the man must have been suffering. To be in a state of almost uncontrollable rage, whilst Holmes’s countenance remained in a state of total passivity, must have been unbearable. Though Lestrade, too, was disappointed, he was far better acquainted with Holmes.

  My presence at the trial was perhaps an unwelcome reminder of the unpleasantness which had so recently taken place, and I was the attention of several awkward enquiries from the press, which I either refrained from answering or handled in a fashion of the utmost delicacy. It was a most unfortunate situation which had evolved between Abberline and Holmes, particularly within the confines of this most public of environments. It was therefore with great embarrassment on my behalf, and huge frustration for Abberline when the verdict was given. George Ch
apman was found not guilty for the crimes of Jack the Ripper, due to a lack of conclusive evidence. He was also successful in his claim that he had been innocent of poisoning his wife, and that the man who tried to frame him as the Ripper must also be responsible.

  I had attempted to leave the courthouse as swiftly and discreetly as I could, but in a fit of malice, Abberline accused me of sneaking off to the press in order to get the first word and boast before the nation. I am proud to say that I did not take the bait, and simply declined to comment further than that the verdict speaks for itself, before forcing my way through the crowds, back toward the unusual salvation which Baker Street so readily provides.

  Upon my return to 221B, I found Holmes in consultation with a thoroughly dishevelled and filthy-looking young street-Arab. His name was Wiggins, the leader of the unofficial foot-soldiers known as the Baker Street Irregulars, a group of miscreants Holmes paid to enact covert operations in our great capital.

  “Ah, Watson,” said Holmes, delicately perched upon his customary chair. It was the first occasion over the past several days that I had ample opportunity to scrutinise his notably worn and paler features; his countenance bore all the signs of one bordering upon manic-psychosis. “You have just arrived to hear young Wiggins’ report; it is of really quite some interest.”

  “I had almost entirely forgotten your errand, Wiggins,” I said, taking my seat next to Holmes and looking up into the grubby face of our comrade. “The scent has been cold for so long that I had assumed your task had been a fruitless one.”

  “Indeed it ’ad bin sir, tha’ is till very recent. Sir,” said Wiggins.

  “Pray, please describe this most intriguing of gentlemen,” said Holmes.

  “Well Mr ’olmes, our location is a ’ouse of assignation on Regent Street, one of those well-to-do places, where rich folk, married or ovverwise, get up to all kind of promiscuous activities. I ’ave ’eard tha’ there is a regula’ visitor of this establishment named Mr Cecil Kirkby. ’e’s a wealthy man, but one ’ose fortunes are rumoured to be very much on the decline. I ’ear ’e is not in a position to continue such meetin’s and tha’ is why recent ’e terminated these arrangements. Two things are important, Mr ’olmes; first, the young mistress ’as disappeared, an’ second, Mr Kirkby appears rather unstable. ’e ’as shown unexpected violence and been ’eard makin’ ill-conceived mutterin’s. Wha’ I ’ear, Mr ’olmes is tha’ Mr Kirkby’s mental ’ealth is goin’ very much the same way as ’is finances.”

  “When did you learn of this man?” asked Holmes, his eyes closed and his hands drawn.

  “’e came to our attention abou’ a week or so ago. I’ve bin askin’ ’bout ’im and followin’ ’im since.”

  “Indeed. I wonder, Wiggins, whether you have heard any rumours regarding the possibility of this man having contracted syphilis?”

  “None, sir. The decline in ’is ’ealth ’as emerged out of nothin’.”

  “Your reward shall be doubled if you can locate this gentleman and have him sitting opposite me before the day is through,” said Holmes, springing from his chair and pacing the room. “Tell him, I have heard of his predicament and wish all to remain a matter of the utmost privacy. Should he wish his affairs to continue to be so, he should be here as soon as he is free of any other obligations. If he causes you any problems, direct him toward the very public trial which I remained absent from, and the unfortunate attention he may receive if he forces me to consult with him under much more official circumstances; I am sure that, after the spectacular miscalculation of recent events, the authorities will be more than cooperative in supporting me in such matters.”

  “Understood Mr ’olmes,” said Wiggins, as he scurried out of the door back into the busy London streets.

  “I assume the verdict was as expected?” asked Holmes, briefly halting his relentless march before the mantle-piece in order to procure some tobacco from his slipper.

  “Indeed it was,” said I, keeping a watchful eye upon his habits; I could not offer an explanation for what was nothing more than instinctive intuition, but there was some minor detail in his manner which was somewhat unnerving. “As we know, there is a long way to travel before an inherently violent man with no alibi in 1888 can be accused of being Jack the Ripper. Regarding more recent events, a neighbour gave evidence that he saw Chapman enter his dwellings at midnight upon the night in question. Chapman had been returning from a local drinking establishment, which was verified, and no contradictory evidence was given to that of his wife, who said he slept beside her in a drunken slumber until morning. In conjunction with the fact that the victim remains anonymous, it is of course impossible to satisfactorily link her to Chapman or anyone else for that matter. Abberline was distraught. He is still convinced of Chapman’s guilt regardless of the verdict, and I am afraid to say that all he has achieved is publicly dragging his name through a considerable amount of dirt.”

  “That, I am afraid, cannot be helped. If our colleagues insist upon ignoring our kind offers and, as you say, dragging themselves through the dirt, there is little we can do to stop them. Inspector Abberline’s was a case of the most deplorable kind: he lacked both evidence and truth. However, not all is lost; now that the authorities have so extravagantly miscalculated, we shall at least enjoy priority over investigations.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “We have one plan available to us: it is fantastical in both its level of crudeness and personal danger, but now is not the time to discuss such matters. We must be careful, Watson; we cannot afford to commit the kind of ill-judged blunders which our colleagues seem to insist upon. Every step, no matter how trivial or mundane, must be considered to the utmost of our abilities. I shall therefore not even contemplate explaining such a plan until we have heard the curious tale of Mr Cecil Kirkby.”

  It is a most un-enjoyable experience to be Holmes’s fellow lodger when he is in a period of limbo during a case; his mood resembles that of a man trapped in purgatory. I learnt long ago that any form of diversionary proposal is completely pointless in such circumstances, no matter how practical a recommendation; nothing short of a crisis is sufficient to prevent Holmes from constantly revolving the facts.

  During the hours in which we awaited Wiggins’ return, he demanded an absolute breakdown of the trial; he was adamant upon hearing every single piece of minutiae. Fortunately, I had prepared for such an event, and had recorded what seemed to be every word of the proceedings. However, in a moment of rare and foolish optimism, I had failed to anticipate that Holmes would not be satisfied to merely read my report, but would insist upon my spoken narrative. It was both tiresome and monotonous, but it helped liberate Holmes’s faculties, freeing him to fully visualise my words. Some may find it surprising that he requires such aid, but even the greatest of minds rely upon tricks and techniques to maximise their efficiency and capabilities. Although this kind of request is quite common within the confines of our friendship, I soon became exasperated at Holmes’s insistence upon repetition of such vast quantities of ostensibly innocuous data.

  By the time we had completed this downright tedious task, I was in a state of utter irritability: a frame of mind which was not helped by the sudden burst of sharp discords that erupted from Holmes’s violin. I am grateful that occasionally he accedes to cater for my taste in popular music, and often I am rewarded with performances of quite breath-taking beauty. He commands a delicacy of touch which allows notes to resonate exquisitely in the air before crisply breaking into splendid and supremely controlled staccatos; it was the fluidity and entirely natural transformation in style which informed me I was being left the undeniable calling card of a true musician.

  Unfortunately, the balancing act of equal contrast that can be seen throughout our universe was still at work inside 221B, and the price to pay for these sporadic private performances was the torture upon the ear of Holmes’ inaudible thra
shing of the strings. To suffer this most atrocious of toneless assaults was an all too regular occurrence, and one for which I believe Holmes should be forced to attend Confession. However, such is the affect it has upon his ability to contemplate matters of subtlety, it is regrettably effective.

  Under such tumultuous conditions, it was difficult to ascertain as to which one of us was more thrilled by the reappearance of Wiggins and his most intriguing of companions. Mercifully, Holmes placed his violin back in its case and silently swooped back down upon his chair in anticipation, while I exhaustedly gave up my pretence of attempting to read the evening paper.

  Mr Cecil Kirkby could not have wished for a more inappropriate escort upon his first and indeed singular visit to Baker Street. As the two unlikely compatriots entered our rooms, his contrast to Wiggins was starkly apparent. Kirkby struck me as a rather odd fellow: he had an exceedingly strong jaw, which looked as if it would be rather more suitable upon the work of a sculptor. He was clearly not a man of great age, yet the tips of his feathers were prematurely whitened. He had watery green-grey eyes, and wore his fashionable suit with a pompous demeanour.

  “Mr Cecil Kirkby,” said Holmes, rising from his chair and offering his hand to our guest. “I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Dr Watson. Please take a seat.”

  “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your business,” said Wiggins from the doorway.