The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes (14 page)

“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.”

“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.”