The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes (6 page)

“Sherlock,” I said, as he sat in his customary silence, eyes closed and fingers drawn beneath his chin, by the cold ashes of the fire. “You talk of Dr Watson as a chivalrous man who would be disturbed by any crime against a woman. But one cannot help notice a rather prominent omission in his publications regarding those most terrible of crimes only a few years past.”

“You are referring to Jack the Ripper? That is a most delicate situation, Miss Adler, which it would be imprudent to comment upon publicly.”

“But we are not in public,” I pressed. “Can't you divulge your tale to me? My imitations of Dr Watson's chronicles are, of course, for no one's eyes but my own.”

“I see no harm; the matter has run its course and one day the truth will be published. The only logical conclusion that one can reach when presented with the facts is that Jack the Ripper was none other than Professor James Moriarty.”

“I do not doubt your answer, for I have suffered the misfortune of crossing paths with Professor Moriarty. Not in person, of course; his game was to always remain in the shadows, allowing others to dirty their hands. But pray, can't you explain how you can be certain as to your conclusions, and why must they remain unknown?”

“Not all truths are suitable in a court of law, Miss Adler. You speak of Moriarty as belonging to the shadow: that is not quite an apt description. Spiders dwell in the dark, await their prey, they adapt to their environment. Moriarty crafted his own environment, he created the shadows and dictated the movement of those inside. Does such an explanation suffice?”

“Only slightly. Surely even Moriarty did not control
all
crime. Could there not have been one knife-wielding savage who escaped his grasp?”

“Quite, but you miss the point. The Ripper was never caught: we therefore must assume that he is blessed with considerable intellect. But, if we follow my hypothesis, then the outcome dictates that Jack the Ripper was able to avoid capture precisely because he controlled almost the entire criminal underworld. Picture Moriarty as a spider at the centre of a great web, controlling hundreds of threads; a vibration on but a single strand would be felt in the nucleus. But if the vibration is determined by the spider, not the prey, then the spider knows exactly which of its threads are quiet.”

“You mean Moriarty created crime elsewhere in order to carry out these atrocities?”

“Precisely,” said Sherlock Holmes. “The spider creates a distraction, attacks its prey and then scuttles back into the shadow. Moriarty would have ensured that the main focus of the authorities was elsewhere by orchestrating decoy crimes, so that he could carry out the atrocities of Jack the Ripper. They were sufficient to draw the attention of the police, but never so formulaic that they aroused suspicion of any ulterior motive. The usual system of agents and buffers would have been in place; and it is fairly safe to assume that different agents were employed each time. Moriarty avoided any patterns, fooling the authorities, as well as to ensure that this most delicate of secrets was kept safe, even from his most loyal supporters.”

“Forgive me Sherlock but your reasoning appears to be rather flimsy. I do not doubt Moriarty controlled the majority of crime in London, but that by no means conclusively proves he was Jack the Ripper.”

“It does not, however I must point out Miss Adler that were it possible to prove such, we would not be having this discussion about possibilities, for the case would be closed. As it is, the case is open, and therefore we must remain in the realm of hypothesis. Do you remember the three rather disturbing murders which took place shortly before my death?”

“Of course.”

“They were orchestrated by Professor Moriarty, and were entirely motivated by his hatred for me, and desire to halt my pursuit of him. They were meticulously executed, fiendishly violent, and yet to the public, entirely unmotivated. Do such motivations resemble anyone familiar?”

“I can understand why Moriarty would wish to murder such well-renowned figures, Sherlock, but why would he bother committing such crimes against common prostitutes?”

“The majority of our population is made up of honest men and women, Miss Adler. Murder a politician or a social reformer, and there is great scandal, but why should a man who can barely afford to feed his family and cannot vote for such people care? Brutally slaughter a helpless woman, for seemingly no reason, and everyone feels threatened. Through different methods, Moriarty terrorised all the population.”

“Your logic is as concise as always, but I still do not understand
why
Moriarty would openly risk revealing himself by killing those women. It is so out of keeping with his other exploits that it makes me question the notion altogether.”

“I need say no more than ask you to repeat your last sentence.”

“It is so out of keeping with his other exploits that it makes me question the notion altogether. You use the anomaly of his actions as a basis of his guilt?”

“You are not the first person to share such sceptical sentiments, nor will you be the last; that was the beauty of Moriarty's game. His station in society as a renowned mathematician and foremost intellect was a calculated cocoon of infallibility. Such is the foolish attitude toward social order in our country that the officials would not even entertain Moriarty as a criminal, let alone being both the Napoleon of crime and Jack the Ripper. I can only point to the circumstantial evidence, that as I closed in upon Jack the Ripper, his activities ceased. The further one advances, the further the other retreats. This was the time I began to slowly advance upon the late Professor, and he knew his game of openly taunting me was up.”

“But you could not prove it was he?”

“No, I could not. Perhaps I could, had it been my true purpose.”

“I do not understand. Capturing Jack the Ripper was not your purpose? What were you doing?”

“My purpose was to stop Moriarty, Miss Adler, not capture Jack the Ripper,” said Holmes. “The Ripper was only one, although fairly substantial crime. I strove to bring Moriarty's criminal empire in its entirety crashing down upon him. You must understand that it was a great game being played between the Professor and I. Jack the Ripper was a classic case of diversion, and my role was to play along. I allowed Moriarty to make his move, and would then follow with the appropriate amount of intensity, whilst my attention was actually focused elsewhere.”

“You mean to say that not only did you not try to capture the monster, but you were not even trying to prevent the murders?” I exclaimed.

“I was not engaged upon the case from the start, an error in judgment that I cannot be held accountable for. But no, I did not try to prevent them.”

“But Sherlock, that is despicable!” I cried, scarcely believing this cruellest of revelations.

“Despicable? Try to recall my portrayal of Moriarty, Miss Adler; he was impregnable! Any sniff of me close to a single thread, and poof! The resolute strand of the vast web threatening to suffocate all of London would vanish, leaving me stumbling, blindfolded in the dark.”

“You mean to say even the great Sherlock Holmes was consistently thwarted by Professor Moriarty?”

“I cannot win every battle, Miss Adler, and I will not deny that Moriarty was the closest thing that I have ever had to an equal. As for the Ripper, he was the Professor's greatest achievement and his greatest mistake. The shocking nature of the crimes and the ease of his escape were designed to poison the London air with a terrible, all-consuming fear. It was also a message to myself. However, for all the Professor's cunning, his deviance and his organisation, he harboured the same flaw of all dictators; he was arrogant. The ruse of the Ripper was an obsession, and I am sure Moriarty took great amusement in consistently thwarting me in the public eye. But at last, he had provided me with an opportunity to grasp one of his great threads. Before he realised his mistake, I was striving from within, relentlessly working toward his demise. And though people may not approve of my methods, I succeeded in ridding London of both Jack the Ripper and eventually Professor Moriarty.”

“But why was this not in Dr Watson's account? His publications have never so much as mentioned Jack the Ripper.”

“There are numerous unpublished cases of my works. It is impossible to publish such an account at this point in time. To proclaim such statements about one of our most respected scholars and citizens, with no conclusive evidence, would be distinctly unwise.”

I cannot deny that despite my initial disdain for Sherlock Holmes's ruthless nature during that fateful period in 1888, I could not help but feel an admiration toward his purely logical reasoning. Without doubt, he had defeated two of the greatest criminals the world has ever known. Remnants still remained: Moriarty's empire was in decay but still yet to collapse, while Jack the Ripper remained a symbol to all those who strove to terrorise the citizens of England's great capital. It was therefore with a heavy heart that one morning I brought news of such shocking profanity, I knew it must mean the departure of Sherlock Holmes back into the mortal world.

As I entered Sherlock's room, he was relentlessly pacing up and down, smoking his pipe at a frantic rate. The room was covered in the scattering of English newspapers, all cast upon the floor in frustration.

“He must make a move soon! I am not sure how much longer I can remain idle,” he cried.

“To whom do you refer, Sherlock?” I enquired, rather warily.

“Moran, Miss Adler, Moran! I have heard so little of his exploits that I am beginning to think that he has simply retired!”

I briefly allowed Holmes to continue in his habitual nature of muttering to himself, his manner suggestive that he was either unaware or totally unfazed by my attempted communication.

“Sherlock,” I said, surprised at the forcefulness of my tone.

“What is it?” he retorted.

“I think you may find it easier to locate the Colonel in this morning's newspaper,” I said somewhat tartly.

The unusual tone of my remark was at least sufficient to interrupt his train of thought, as he reluctantly slumped into a chair to examine the paper. One of the main articles told of a great panic which had arisen in London. It originated from a letter sent to the Central News Ltd; it read as follows:

‘Holmes is gone in a watery grave

For the rest of time, no more can he save.

They thought me Moriarty, a raging Professor,

I'll prove them all wrong, when I
undress
her.

I'll do it again, stifle their cries,

Back from hell…

Jack the Ripper will rise.
'

For a long period of time, Sherlock sat transfixed. His eyes did not so much as blink as he continued to smoke his pipe and stare at the article, as if he were willing the identity of the author to leap suddenly from the pages. It is the only instance, in my limited experience, that I can recall having seen him wear such an expression.

“Intriguing,” he finally muttered.

“I thought you said Professor Moriarty and Jack the Ripper were one and the same?” I enquired cautiously.

“They could still be so. I would have assumed it to be yet another imitator trying to strike terror into the citizens of London, but his mention of Moriarty suggests otherwise.”

“It could be Moran setting a trap?” I offered.

“That is a most distinct possibility,” he replied. “London was, of course, the playground of Jack the Ripper, but the publication does suggest that he is unaware of my whereabouts, or indeed if I am truly alive. Nonetheless, my hand has been forced, and the only way to deduce any form of satisfactory conclusion is my slightly premature, yet long overdue return to London. Moran will not know of my disguise, and fortunately there are many different entrances to our great island.”

It would be some time before I could return to England, and I was reluctant to lose the company of Holmes. Though our time together had occasionally been fraught, he was still the most captivating man I have known.

“I will visit my brother, Mycroft, to see if he can shed any light upon this most peculiar of events,” said he, briskly gathering any item of significance. “Should you ever require my services, Mycroft has been kind enough to maintain my rooms at Baker Street. I would urge caution and send some kind of message first; they will undoubtedly be being watched, and I do not know how long it will be before I can reclaim them safely as my own. But rest assured, I will be in touch.”

Chapter III - An Interview and a Letter

Irene Adler had proven to be an intriguing companion during my last few months in exile. My initial impression formed from our previous encounter was quite accurate; she commanded a manipulative deviance that few possess, and it had been no exaggeration on my behalf to label her as
the
woman. However, though she may have considered our relationship to have progressed to that of friendship, I am not foolish enough to leave such a document in the hands of one of Europe's most capable criminals; and so upon my leave I commandeered her manuscript.

I journeyed back to England surrounded by the truly awful odour of what one assumed to be cargo destined for Billingsgate fish market. Moran could not search every vessel entering British waters, so I remained confident as to the safety of my passage. As the boat chugged toward London, my eyes were greeted by the charm of dense smoke and the allure of the burning furnaces below. If Watson were the one writing, I am sure he would have described the view as menacing; but having suffered the tedious tranquillity of Europe's countryside for so long, I was rather taken by the charms of industrial life.

Naturally my attention had been focused on the rather curious correspondence from Jack the Ripper. It seemed somewhat imprecise, similar in its design to the clumsy nature of a large net, rather than the delicate precision of rod and line. I was certain that, though the ensuing mass panic was intended, I was the true recipient. As to the motive behind such a ploy, I cannot be sure; if it were Moran, I can see no decipherable reason as to why he should choose that moment in time to act. The meticulous temperament of his military background would surely have demanded earlier action, particularly in light of his recently inactive status.

I remained in full disguise as I departed the boat. Though Moran could never truly be certain as to my return, I was not foolish enough to rely on any complacency on his behalf; it would have been a most unnecessary and potentially fatal risk.

It was a bitter spring evening, and a thick layer of fog had descended upon London. The street lamps were mere specks of light, which offered little consolation to those troubled by such depths of darkness. Fortunately Mycroft is a creature of frightful routine, and I was assured that it was most likely I would receive his counsel. His lodgings at Pall Mall, the Diogenes Club opposite and Whitehall, just around the corner, are his only usual ventures: only upon matters of national importance have I known him to deviate from these well-oiled tracks.

Initially the deceptive blanket of fog was a welcome aid in my safe navigation of London's streets; but once I approached Pall Mall, it caused the unfortunate necessity of approaching my brother's window, so as to ensure his predicted behaviour of reading by the fire, rather than tending to some unexpected Imperial issue.

I knocked on the door and swiftly barged past the flustered servant Geoffrey.

“What is the meaning of this?” he exclaimed. “We do not entertain beggars. Nor do we pander to the whims of vile miscreants. Honestly, I know the French are uncivilised but to ignore the courtesy of invitation!”

“I believe my time is far more valuable than yours, Geoffrey,” said I, removing my facial disguise. “And I assure you that I had ample reason to presume invitation.”

“Mr Holmes!” he cried, straightening his impeccable attire. “I apologise, sir, your appearance was so convincing that I did not recognise you for an instant.”

“No need for apologies, Geoffrey; after all, that is the function of a disguise.”

I left Geoffrey to recover from his minor ordeal and entered Mycroft's sitting-room to find him immersed in the documents of Governmental issues. It is a rare occasion indeed that such papers are cast aside, merely to allow for the tedium of guests. Though Mycroft is exceedingly capable of solving his colleague's many problems, often it is only at the request of the Prime Minister that he will eventually submit. He has a clarity of mind and a prowess for organisation which is second to none, and it is for this reason that he has formed the rather unique position as the central exchange to all Government departments. There are many within the upper-echelons of the British Government who consider him as essential; there are some who consider him to
be
the British Government, and I am told there are countless instances of his advice defining state policy.

“Mycroft, how wonderful to see you after so many years,” I proclaimed, stepping into the room.

“Dear brother, I return your sentiment, and say it is indeed a pleasure to see you looking so
alive
,” replied Mycroft, his fleshy hand grasping my own firmly. It is fortunate that the sharpness of the mind is not affected by the plumpness of one's body, for Mycroft still bore all the signs of physical idleness. His misty, watery grey eyes were surrounded by his rather corpulent facial features, while his torso disguised the feats of elegance he has been known to demonstrate.

“I thank you, Mycroft; although if my situation is as dire as this beyond the grave, I must have done something truly contemptible in my time amongst the living.”

“Yes, I heard as much from Geoffrey upon your entry; his manner is exemplary around the distinguished, but he is rather curt when attending to the less fortunate,” said he, retaking his seat. “Still I must applaud you for your conquering of the late Professor Moriarty. You have done your country a great service, Sherlock; one for which you should be knighted.”

“I have no interest in peerage; I do not play for reward, but for the game's sake. If I accept your offer, I would be hounded further still by every authority in the land over the simplest and blandest of cases, instead of the delightfully intricate little problems which previously Baker Street so frequently provided.”

“I did not think you would consent; but once the Prime Minister learns of your triumphant survival, he will insist upon my enquiry. Anyway, I am sure we will have plenty of time for pleasantries later; I assume of course, that you have returned due to that charming letter, which has struck terror into the hearts of our poor citizens.”

“You are correct in your assumptions, difficult as I am sure they were to deduce,” said I, taking a glass of Cognac from the tray Geoffrey had so efficiently produced. “It was my belief that Jack the Ripper was indeed Professor Moriarty; a conclusion, I recall, that we reached together. The rather abrupt end to the Ripper's activities coincided with my pursuit upon the matter, and Moriarty's death appeared to have brought a conclusive end to the case.”

“Quite so, Sherlock, it did seem to be the only logical theory. None of the Ripper cases in your absence have been anything more than pathetic imitations. However, I must point out that although this recent letter is certainly suggestive, it does by no means truly indicate the rise of Jack the Ripper.”

“You suspect Moran?” I replied.

“It would appear to me that he has become rather desperate, and has decided to adopt a rather crude method of luring you back into the lion's den; I deduce no other realistic purpose for such a course of action. But I fear you do not seem satisfied by such a theory?”

“Moran is no fool, and the use of such tactics appears a touch too simplistic for such an experienced campaigner. And why wait until now to act?”

I perceived from the hint of bewildered exasperation upon my brother's face that he was privy to information that he had yet to divulge.

“Sherlock, I know how much this Ripper business bothered you,” said Mycroft, lighting one of his beautifully fragrant cigars. “He was the most horrendous of all criminals; but come, you cannot tell me that you have returned to hunt down an anonymous man?”

“That is my purpose,” I said.

“Sherlock, I implore you to see sense! Moran is the man you should be after.”

“Moran is
not
Jack the Ripper,” I replied.

“For God's sake, will you no longer see reason? Colonel Sebastian Moran, the right hand man of Professor James Moriarty, the man you yourself labelled the Napoleon of crime,
he
is your man!” Mycroft exclaimed, slamming his cigar down with surprising force. “Moran may not be Moriarty, but he is still capable of damage upon a great scale; a scale that will be significantly increased if he is able to dispose of you while you are chasing shadows around the East End, protecting prostitutes from some deranged savage with a knife!”

“The sharpness of your mind always did contrast with the occasional bluntness of your tongue Mycroft,” I replied in slight amusement at my brother's little outburst. “But fret not; you do not have to delve into your political tool-box to reason with me. As you have correctly stated, my continued existence is dependant upon my capturing Colonel Moran; however, such an exploit does not necessitate abandoning my hunt for Jack the Ripper.”

Before Mycroft had chance to retort, he was interrupted by a knock on the door, and Geoffrey entered with a perplexed look on his brow.

“I am sorry to disturb you sir, but there is a letter addressed to you. It says that it is urgent,” he said, placing the correspondence upon the table before swiftly turning upon his heel and making his exit.

“Thank you, Geoffrey,” said Mycroft. “I do apologise, Sherlock, but occasionally my colleagues do need advice upon matters of importance.”

My mind had rather drifted into the pleasures of my smoke and the intricacies which had began to develop when I was abruptly interrupted by the concerned tone of my brother.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said gravely. “This is intended for you.”

Rather shocked, I took the offending document from my brother, struggling to deduce what could have caused his dumbstruck expression. The letter resembled an authentic dispatch of the British Government, but clearly it was not another tiresome offer from the Prime Minister; the only remarkable feature judging by the gauge and texture of the paper was that it appeared to be from the Central News Ltd printing press. It read:

‘I cungratulat yu on servivin the perils of Rykenback Mr Homes but I also mus' apologis for not bein the firs' to welkom yu bak…' The rest was blank, apart from two small words written using red ink in the bottom-right corner of the page, ‘
To Hell.
'

I confess that my actions upon finishing the letter were rather rash. I leapt from my chair, Mycroft unable to so much as twitch before I had cast from my shoulders the shelter and protection which I had so readily sought. I reached the threshold, but could see nothing through the great dark cloud which had consumed London. I frantically searched the area: there was a small stone by the door, which had not been present upon my arrival; there were also the unmistakable signs of footprints. I ran to the boundary of Mycroft's property, but could see only a handful of office-clerks, rushing through the fog back to their nearby lodgings. Then I saw a most disturbing sight.

Upon the street corner, a man stepped out of the darkness. I could not see his face, for it appeared to be covered by some kind of sheath and was dressed in shadow; only his eyes could be seen, glowing demonically in the reflection of a nearby street-lamp. He wore a long black coat and top hat.

For a moment, neither he nor I could act, other than to simply remain motionless, glaring into each other's eyes. I began to run toward the man, but he simply stepped back, instantly vanishing into the darkness. I reached the corner in a matter of seconds but he had disappeared; Jack the Ripper had slipped back into the night.

I stood for a moment, transfixed; I could not comprehend how this man could possibly have known of my return. If it were Moran, then I could not help but wonder why I was still alive. A man of such ability could have quite easily shot me, or had me run down by a carriage the instant I stepped onto the street.

Aware of my fortune, I quickly returned to the now significantly reduced safety of Mycroft's lodgings. I did not have time to listen to the moaning of my brother as he awaited my return upon his step; I needed confirmation of what I had seen only moments before.

“Geoffrey!” I cried, running into the sitting room and forcing him into a chair. “What did you see? Tell me exactly what you saw upon opening the door!”

“Mr Holmes, what is the meaning of this?”

“Tell me what you saw, Geoffrey!” I demanded.

“There was a knock at the door,” he said tentatively. “I opened it, but there was no-one there; I took a quick glance but I could not see anything, such was the thickness of the fog. I noticed a small stone upon the floor, weighing down the letter, and I delivered it straightaway.”

“You did not see a man?”

“At first, sir, no but, having picked up the letter, I thought I could just make out the silhouette of a man on the foot of the path. I called out to him but he did not respond.”

“What did this man look like?” asked Mycroft.

“I do not know, sir, I only saw him from behind. He appeared to be a fairly normal-sized man, and the only feature I could make out was that he was dressed in evening attire.”

“Thank you, Geoffrey, that will be all. You may retire for the evening.”

“Well, Mycroft, an interesting development indeed,” said I, retaking my seat by the fire.

“Sherlock, please, it
must
be Moran!”

“We cannot be certain who that man was until we examine the facts. This letter, for example, is a precise duplicate of a Governmental dispatch, so as to ensure that you would read the contents upon receipt. The man is therefore exceedingly intelligent: why then, did he write the letter upon paper which, though to most not instantly recognisable, is certainly discoverable, and then purposefully confuse the spelling, having previously demonstrated competence in this area? He wishes to conceal his true identity, while perhaps pointing us toward false conclusions. If this
was
Moran, why was I not disposed of in the street? It would have been far easier and far safer to ensure my death as readily as possible.”