The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes (15 page)

“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 prosecution 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 221
B
. 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.

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 Chapman 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 221
B
, 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.