The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes Read online

  I must confess that I found myself greatly disturbed at the logical reasoning placed before me by Mycroft Holmes: though he was quite clearly the possessor of truly first-class intellect, it was just as apparent that he also possessed a disposition bordering on homicidal-insanity, and he needed to be silenced. I slowly rose from my seat, the barrel of my revolver never aimed so much as a fraction from the centre of his temple.

  “Watson!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “Do not be foolish!I have already lost a brother tonight; do not allow me to lose my one true companion by succumbing to the temptation of emptying your barrel.”

  But to Holmes’s surprise, I turned and strode decisively toward the exit.

  “If you are journeying toward the authorities, I really must protest,” said Mycroft.

  “You are in no position to protest against anything, Mycroft!” I shouted, turning back into the room.

  “I rather think you are wrong there, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes, knocking the wind from my sails.

  “Holmes,” I said, having finally regained my composure. “I know that he is your brother but for God’s sake, he is also Jack the Ripper! We have no choice but to hand him over to Lestrade and Abberline. He cannot go free.”

  “I would rather disagree with you there, my dear doctor,” said Mycroft. “Do you honestly believe that I would have planted those fingers in George Chapman’s dwelling if I did not wish Sherlock to discover my secret? Come, I had always believed you were a far more astute fellow than this.”

  “You may dress yourself in as much verbal nonsense as you wish, Mycroft, but I refuse to stand here and allow you to walk away! There is not a single reason you can provide which will change my mind.”

  “How about anarchy, Watson?” said Sherlock Holmes.

  “Anarchy?” I repeated, but even as I spoke, a compromising dawn of light began to break through the clouds of confusion.

  “If we go to the authorities and present Mycroft as Jack the Ripper, then the entire country shall descend into chaos. Mycroft Holmes, a man considered by many to be the British Government, who has advised the Royal Family, and who effectively holds more power than the Prime Minister himself, is Jack the Ripper. The uproar would be catastrophic: citizens would never trust the government again, foreign nations would cease to deal with us, the Empire would fall into disrepute, and the country would descend into an impenetrable darkness. So you see, Watson, there is a very good reason indeed not only why Mycroft cannot be revealed, but also why he has chosen to reveal himself only to ourselves, to demonstrate just how successfully he has won, beaten us all, in this most deplorable of games.”

  It was not until I had heard the dejected self-admission of Holmes’s defeat that I regained my composure and returned to his side. Mycroft had manoeuvred himself into a position of complete infallibility. Jack the Ripper could never be caught. What should have been Holmes’s greatest achievement would have to be recorded as his biggest failure. He had mocked others, rejected their theories, and acted in a manner suggestive that he would, as he seemingly always did, discover the truth in a flash of subtle brilliance. Now he would have to live with the knowledge that, in the eye of the public, not only had he failed, but in a manner so unworthy of his great mind that it would surely torment him for the rest of his life.

  As I pondered the implications of this turn of events, their significance began to dawn upon me: if Mycroft could not be exposed under any circumstances, he needed to be silenced. I could not allow a man with this perverse form of immunity from prosecution continue his life, with nothing but his own conscience preventing him from terrorising London’s streets once more. Though Holmes had previously stated that he would not allow for my sacrifice, I came to the conclusion that there was no viable alternative. If Mycroft was to be stopped, I had to be the one to rid the world of Jack the Ripper. Holmes’s life was far more valuable than my own.

  As I sat back down, it took all of my concentration to prevent any expression which may have betrayed my true purpose. I gripped my revolver, pondering the consequences of the action I was about to perform. The biographer and intimate friend of Sherlock Holmes murders a top-level British politician in cold blood, for reasons unknown. I confess this was a level of heroism I had never expected to burden. I would be tried and found guilty before the entire world and hanged in disgrace. Only Holmes and I would be privy to the knowledge of my noble, yet publicly dishonourable death. The only comforting thought was that I would soon be reunited with Mary. I felt certain the Almighty would forgive my sins and allow me passage into His great kingdom, having slain this most foul and wretched of creatures.

  I began to inhale deeply, allowing the oxygen to feed my cells and calm my nerves. I knew I had only one shot, one opportunity to bury my bullet into the temple of Jack the Ripper. I had been covering Mycroft’s movements so there would be no sudden rush on my behalf. I steadied my hand and softly began to squeeze the trigger…

  “I should of course tell you, Mycroft,” said Sherlock Holmes, suddenly rising from his chair, as if he had sensed my sacrificial intent, “that though you may have positioned yourself quite brilliantly in relation to the law, you have been rather less successful in beating me.”

  “Oh really?” said Mycroft, an air of impatience in his voice. “And tell me, dear brother, what trick are you about to pull out of the hat this time? I can see no way in which you could have bested me, I have been ahead of you every step of the way for years!”

  “Perhaps; but I think you will find that I have enjoyed the advantage in our more recent contest. First of all, you sent the letter to Lord Balmoral that sparked this whole affair, to bring me back to London in order to investigate and topple the Bagatelle-Quartet. You also arranged for the second letter to be delivered to your lodgings; the man who came to the door upon my return from exile was someone in your service whom you paid to deliver the letter. He was not aware of the contents, or why it was insisted upon that he wore a rather specific and unusual choice of attire. Geoffrey, of course, only reported what he saw, and has no further role to play in this affair. By entwining the fate of the Ripper into that of the Bagatelle-Quartet, you ensured that I would not get distracted and ignore Moran. That much is clear. Now onto more intriguing matters: upon the night of Irene Adler’s murder, I sent out lines of enquiry using both official and non-official means. I must admit, it struck me as quite peculiar that Wiggins was completely unsuccessful, for I believed he had the greatest chance of success. It was a problem which continued to baffle me: the woman was clearly of a certain stature; therefore a more notable woman had to be missing. I then found it curious that Lestrade and Abberline were rather miraculously drawn to a man with, what seemed to me, an all-too convenient set of credentials. It seems clear that you encouraged a citizen to take on the role of the Samaritan, and that you have had your eyes on a selection of fitting candidates for many years. Of course, after the discovery of Miss Adler’s fingers, your purpose was clear: you were single-handedly toying with the entire nation and me. I did not wish to believe that it was you, Mycroft. I can hardly claim our relationship bears any resemblance to one which is close, but the idea that you might be Jack the Ripper was still rather distasteful. But I knew how to ascertain your identity. While we were in the depths of our planning together, I let slip my disappointment in Wiggins’s failure to bring me not even one suitable suspect. Only a week or so passed after I divulged this information to you, and then Wiggins placed in my hands the most curious case of Mr Cecil Kirkby. His mentioning of Moriarty was clearly designed to throw me off the true scent, while, I am sure, giving you much cause for amusement at the thought of haunting my thoughts with the ghosts of resurrected Professors. Your vanity and your arrogance were your downfall, dear brother: you had a slight nibble upon the bait but failed to recognise the line upon the end, and I was now certain as to the identity of the fish I was hunting. The question was then, with my newf
ound advantage, how best to beat you at your own game. The answer was simple. I needed to acquire a confession.”

  “Oh bravo!” cried Mycroft, in mock amusement and boredom. “I must admit you outmanoeuvred me with Wiggins, but come, you cannot possibly expect to gain a confession out of me. I am afraid it is your arrogance that has failed you, Sherlock.”

  “I wonder, Mycroft, whether you are familiar with Thomas Edison’s phonograph?” said Holmes. He began to fiddle with an inner-compartment of the desk, before extracting a large box-like contraption and placing it on the desk, a visible hint of amusement on his features. “It is really a rather remarkable invention, used for recording sound. You may also be familiar with speaking-tubes? They are used for communication between the bridge and engine room in steamships, and I have adapted them for my purpose. The phonograph was hidden inside this table, connected, rather ingeniously, to a series of speaking-tubes.”

  Holmes turned on the phonograph, and sure enough we could hear, quite clearly, an earlier conversation: though slightly muffled and a little distorted, the identity of the two voices was undeniable. I had kept my aim firmly upon Mycroft for the duration of Holmes’s revelation, but it was only during this development that I ever felt I was performing any worthwhile task; the look upon Mycroft’s face was that of pure malice.

  “So you see, my dear Mycroft, that although we may have reached a stalemate, should you choose to act unwisely in the future, you shall undoubtedly find yourself in checkmate. I am forced to allow you to continue your life as you did before. You may contact me professionally only if our country is upon the eve of Armageddon. Though I dare say it is unnecessary, I feel compelled to warn you that if I hear so much as a whisper regarding Jack the Ripper, the true Jack the Ripper, I shall not hesitate to expose you. I have been responsible for the destruction of Moriarty and his great criminal empire; do not think that I shall hesitate in bringing you and this greatest of empires crashing to its knees, and watching it crumble and burn into the archives of history.”

  Chapter X - Baker Street

  It was a treacherous morning. The rain pounded upon the pavement with such continuous velocity that it appeared the elements were vying to be reunited in an attempt to break through their artificial constraints. A terrible, glooming grey had submerged the city into a sombre mourning; it was difficult to believe upon days like this that we should ever again be blessed with the soothing grace of the sun.

  It had been two days since Holmes and I had vacated Whitechapel, and he had been asleep ever since. Quite how he managed this feat, to sleep so soundly and for such duration, only hours after unveiling his own brother as one of the most infamous criminal minds, is a notion beyond my own comprehension. What is more, the public backlash was rather overwhelming. In their eyes, not only had we failed, but Constable Smith had needlessly lost his life. It was a tremendous burden to carry the light of illumination and comfort, yet be forced to leave so many desperate souls standing shivering, tormented in the darkness. We could not even attempt to console Smith’s family with the truth. Yet for Holmes, none of this appeared to be of consequence. It would seem that, as long as a revelation is satisfactorily revealed, and a case can be argued not only from start to finish but also from finish to start, he was content to rest.

  I could still not quite comprehend all that had passed. I had never been particularly fond of Mycroft, but never would I have dreamt of him committing a crime, let alone the atrocities to which I heard him confess. I was deeply troubled in my conscience. How could I live with myself if he ever chose to indulge his demonic appetite once again? Some may agree with his callous remarks, that women living in the hell of Whitechapel are better off dead; but I am not so inclined. I will not have the innocent blood of any person upon my hands, no matter how deprived their life may be. I cannot say that I was overly surprised to note that it was upon this most woeful of days that marked Sherlock Holmes’ emergence from his room. It was as if his very existence thrived in the uncertainty of others, for after all, a life without crime is no life for a consulting detective.

  “Have you been asleep this entire time, Holmes?” I enquired as he emerged from his quarters wrapped in his old dressing-gown, and scrutinising a single sheet of paper.

  “Certainly not, dear fellow, I enjoyed twenty hours of sleep after our return, and have since been immersed in a most unusual case. See these hieroglyphics,” said he, passing me a sheet of paper, upon which was a series of strange child-like drawings of bizarre little men, dancing across the page. “Mrs Hudson delivered them while you were still asleep. They were sent to me by a Mr Hilton Cubitt, of Riding Thorpe Manor in Norfolk. The drawings were accompanied by a letter, and I am expecting our guest within the hour.”

  “Holmes, if I may momentarily distract your attention before the arrival of Mr Cubitt.” I was unsure how to approach this subject, for I had scarcely thought that it would arise so promptly, but I knew Holmes would not divert his attention once immersed into another case. “Why was it that after you explicitly said before Mycroft that the Ripper would most likely strike in the school, did he then act exactly as you had predicted?”

  “It was all part of the game, dear fellow: Mycroft was of course unaware that I knew his true identity, and so wished to beat me once again, by successfully striking in the exact location which I had predicted. If he were to be unsuccessful however, and therefore suspected I had discovered his secret, he knew I would confront him alone. In either scenario, it was a somewhat low risk for him to take.”

  “But how was it that you were able to work the phonograph in that school?”

  “Electricity, Watson,” said he, with a look which told me he was only to be asked matters of interest.

  “But the recordings of Mycroft, the confession with which the security of your case depends upon, are you sure they are safe?”

  “Safe?” said he, seated next to the fire, enjoying what looked to be his first meal in well over a week. “How on earth can they ever be safe?”

  “You cannot tell me that you are going to trust Mycroft’s moral compass as the only guarantee to prevent the return of Jack the Ripper?”

  “Of course not. You saw the look upon his face; he knows that his little escapades into the streets of Whitechapel are at an end. I assure you that even had he the desire to try and steal the recording, he would find it quite impossible.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I destroyed the evidence,” said he, casually sipping his tea.

  “You destroyed it? Holmes, what could have possessed you to do such a thing?”

  “Come with me, dear fellow,” said he, rising and ushering me into his quarters. He pointed me in the direction of one of his great shelves; placed between two other rather curious objects was the strange contraption I had last seen in Whitechapel. The exit station for the sound looked like an expanded and deformed hollow flower.

  “Here, listen to this; scrutinise it closely, and all shall be revealed.”

  I did as Holmes asked, and placed my ear as close as was comfortable to the device and listened intently to the recording, keen not to miss any point of subtlety which was so often key to Holmes’s little demonstrations. It was of a conversation he had recorded between himself and Mycroft regarding the logistics of their operation. At first, everything sounded completely natural, but toward the end it began to sound rather strange. Mycroft’s tone was slightly inconsistent, his pitch not quite perfect.

  “Dear God, Holmes that is you! That is what you were doing when I heard your theatrical performances! I must admit I am rather relieved; I thought you were going mad!”

  “Ha! Oh no, I knew that if I could convince Mycroft I had such a recording, it would prevent him from acting unwisely; not of course that he would need to, now that Moriarty, Moran and their empire have been successfully buried. Should he attempt to steal the evidence, we may rest assured t
hat he will never find it. It is quite the neat little problem, to destroy that which does not exist. But, regardless, the success of my little performance has no relevance upon the case. Mycroft has had his fun with me these last few years; I merely thought it prudent that I should at least be allowed, as they say, the last laugh. One day, perhaps such methods will indeed exist and aid the more unimaginative and lazy investigators to trap their prey, but for now, we must rely on more unconventional methods of ingenuity.”

  “Will we ever be able to chronicle this account, Holmes? Even your innovation toward recorded evidence is of sufficient importance for the public to benefit from, and surely they have a right to know that Sherlock Holmes did indeed save them from the tyranny of Jack the Ripper?”

  “No, Watson, they cannot be informed. Even if such a method were possible at this point in time, such an invention in the hands of the wrong person could be used to devastating effect. We have already proven its hypothetical role in advancing the role of blackmail, and I have no intention of speeding up this process. Unfortunately for our dear citizens, they must endure the terror that somewhere, lurking in the shadows, is an unstoppable demon: a spectre which can never be seen and never be caught. One day, you and I shall sit down together in our retirement and scribe this most disturbing of tales but alas, I do not believe that the public will be ready for the shock until long after our deaths. The empire may well have fallen, itself a matter only for the historian, before the world is ready for the horror of my singular confession.”

  “But what about the Bagatelle-Quartet?” I urged, “What in God’s name was the plot that drove Mycroft to resort back to such extremes?”

  “Oh, that is of little importance! Blackmail, politics, secret-intelligence, it is all very mundane and shall be dealt with in a most discreet manner. But, unless I am mistaken, I can hear a heavy yet purposeful foot upon the stair. Come Watson, I believe we have work to do, if we are to discover the cause behind these rather absurd dancing men.”