The Last Sherlock Holmes Story (8 page)

‘The man must be mad!’

‘If only he were. But he is as sane as myself, and as capable.’

I shook my head emphatically.

‘That I cannot believe, Holmes. I saw what he did to that woman in Aldgate. No sane man could have
wielded
that knife. And then you say he dreams of
overthrowing
civilisation. Why, what is that but the raving of a maniac!’

Holmes greeted my outburst with quiet laughter.

‘If only Moriarty could hear you! You would make him very happy, for you think exactly what he wishes people to think. How brilliantly he has contrived to make all the world believe that he is insane! With what consummate artistry he prompts the
vox populi
! No one knows better than he the emotional value of gore and garters. It is a combination the British find absolutely irresistible.’

‘But to disembowel a woman’s body –’

‘Bleat, my dear Watson! Bleat unmitigated and absolute! How many times have you worked at the
dissecting-table
, your arms bathed in blood and –’

‘Come, Holmes! That’s an utterly different case.’

‘But why, pray? His corpses were just as dead as yours. Is it only sane to mutilate them inside the walls of a hospital?’

‘This is mere sophistry, Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘When a doctor performs a dissection he does so for an excellent reason, which is to enlarge human knowledge. But this monster has no reason for what he does beyond his own twisted desires. That is what makes him insane.’

‘And you accuse me of sophistry! My dear Watson, I fear the pot is calling the kettle black. Your argument, like Giotto’s O, is remarkable for the perfection of its
circularity
. You deny that our man has any serious purpose, since his deeds are those of a maniac. When I enquire what is maniacal about them, you reply that it is their lack of purpose. You have demonstrated nothing but the tenacity of your received ideas – as to which, quite frankly, I was never in any real doubt.’

‘Then what is his purpose?’

‘To create chaos. To work evil.’

‘But he was doing far more harm formerly!’ I cried. ‘You say he controlled the underworld single-handed. What more could he want? What worse can he do?’

‘He can destroy the very fabric of civilisation itself,’ replied Holmes gravely. ‘Formerly he was as much a pillar of society as any captain of industry or financial magnate. No one has a greater vested interest in preserving the
status quo
than your average criminal, for his livelihood depends upon it. When Moriarty was their general, he had no more interest in fomenting anarchy than Mr Gladstone. Certainly his agents robbed and blackmailed and intimidated; even murdered on occasion – but to what end? A few individuals suffered and Moriarty
became rich. To a man of the Professor’s abstract turn of mind it must have been very clear that, for all his genius, he was merely a petty crook writ large. His desire now is not to magnify mediocrity, but to make himself the instrument of evil itself. Evil cannot be fettered with motive and meaning! It simply strikes at will, and a woman lies gutted on the pavements of London Town. Already he has created a reign of terror unparalleled in this century. Unless I stop him, the cancer he has implanted in Whitechapel will spread and grow until folk are afraid to step out after nightfall, and sit huddled around the fire, starting at a sound. I tell you, Watson, this man means to bring back the Dark Ages! What makes it possible for millions of people to live together in a city such as London? Trust! Destroy trust and you make
modern
life impossible, and turn our great open city into a camp of armed strangers.’

He paused, staring down at the ground. When he looked up, his eyes burned with a fierce determination.

‘Well, he has challenged me. I accept the challenge.’

He broke off suddenly. His gaze was fixed on the path by which we had entered the park. I could see nothing of interest – only an old tramp who was searching the edge of the lake for scraps of bread left by the fowl.

‘Come, Watson, it’s getting chilly.’ Holmes’s voice had changed from its discursive tone to one of high urgency. ‘I am going away for a few days,’ he announced, as we crossed the bridge over the water. ‘If anyone asks for me, tell them I am out of the country. As for you, old fellow, take care of yourself. We are engaged with a man who has already murdered five women with cold-blooded venom. It behoves us to be on our guard at all times.’

I was not taken in by this. Whatever the dangers, they threatened no one as much as Holmes himself, and I was determined that he should not face them alone. I
therefore
offered to accompany him. He refused politely. I
insisted. The greater the risks he had to run, the more reason for me to share them with him.

‘You have often been glad of my support in the past, Holmes. If this man is the evil genius you claim, it would be mere folly to venture against him alone.’

‘You mean well, I know, Watson, but this affair calls not for bulldog tenacity but for quick wits and nimble limbs. You have neither. Now would you kindly summon that four-wheeler and have him stop just by this gate.’

I was deeply hurt by my friend’s words. That he could speak to me in such a way was eloquent proof of the terrible strain under which he was labouring. In my heart I forgave him, but I did his bidding coldly and in silence. As the cab drew up, Holmes handed me a scrap of paper on which he had scribbled an address.

‘Pass this to the driver, will you? And tell him to make haste.’

I passed this injunction and the note to the cabbie, and then followed Holmes inside. To my amazement, I found the vehicle quite empty. I looked back from the window as we drove away, but the street was deserted, except for the old tramp loitering by the gates. A moment’s
reflection
persuaded me that Holmes must have entered the cab by one door and alighted immediately by the other, thus using the vehicle as cover behind which to slip away down a side-street. I could only hope that this ruse had been successful.

The address to which the cabbie had been directed proved to be 221 Baker Street, and it was there that I spent the following four days – alone, without occupation, and increasingly preoccupied with gloomy forebodings. I knew not what Holmes was doing, nor where he was staying, and since I had no news it was inevitable that I should come to fear the worst. Every morning I opened the paper with trepidation, and though I found nothing to confirm my fears, I could not quiet them. Certainly
Holmes was quite capable of defending himself, given a sporting chance, but Moriarty did not sound the type of man who would trouble himself much about the methods he employed.

Finally, as the days dragged slowly by, I made up my mind that if Holmes had still not reappeared by the end of the week, I would call Lestrade and lay the facts before him. Thus when Lestrade himself called at Baker Street on the Thursday morning, my only thought was that he brought word of some dreadful tragedy which had befallen Holmes. His mien was strangely serious, as befits the bearer of evil tidings. I rushed to meet him at the head of the stairs.

‘What is it?’ I cried wildly. ‘Come, let me know the worst!’

Taken unawares, Lestrade stumbled backwards. I took hold of his sleeve as he clutched for the banister. ‘Tell me all! What has happened? I must know!’

The official recovered his balance with an effort.

‘You didn’t ought to do that, Dr Watson,’ said he slowly. ‘If I had slipped and broke my neck down there, you would have been in serious trouble. Especially when they found this in my pocket.’

He passed me a scruffy envelope. It was addressed to himself, in care of Scotland Yard. There was something oddly familiar about the handwriting. Inside was a letter, scrawled on the cheapest paper. It ran:

No sooner had I read the signature than I knew where I had seen the writing before. It was identical to that of the letter and postcard signed by the murderer of Eddowes and Stride! I looked up at Lestrade.

‘It is another letter from the killer.’

The detective nodded.

‘And you have come to consult Holmes,’ I continued, feeling rather ridiculous after my histrionics. ‘Of course! But I fear I must disappoint you. He is not here.’

‘No Doctor, I didn’t come to see Mr Holmes. I came to see you.’

‘To see me? But why?’

Lestrade produced a small card from his wallet. ‘This was enclosed with the letter you have just read.’

I took the card from him, and gasped. I could not have been more surprised if the thing had turned to a pigeon in my hand. Badly stained with blood, but still legible, it was one of my own calling cards!

Lestrade was staring at me expressionlessly.

‘But – It’s one of my cards!’ I spluttered.

‘Yes, sir. We were able to spot that, even without Mr Holmes’s assistance. The point that interests me is how one of your cards, with blood all over it, came to be included with a letter written – as you yourself admitted – by the Whitechapel killer.’

I stared at the policeman in speechless confusion. I had not seen one of those cards for almost two years. I had had them printed before my association with Holmes had made an independent social life both impossible and unnecessary. Fortunately, I was rescued from my
embarrassment
by the arrival of a constable bearing a message for the detective. Lestrade read it through, then glanced quickly at the man.

‘Wait here,’ he ordered him. Then, turning to me, ‘Would you have any objection to my taking a look in Mr Holmes’s room, Doctor?’

‘In Holmes’s room? Whatever for?’

He passed me the message he had just received. I read:

You will find what you need on the mantel in Holmes’s
room. Do not let Dr Watson leave the premises. Retain the constable.

Abberline
**

‘Of course, I cannot force you to show me the room without a warrant,’ Lestrade continued blandly, ‘but I’m sure you can have no objection, as a law-abiding citizen, to my having a look.’

I felt as though I were trapped in some senseless dream from which there was no awakening. But my voice mumbled assent, and we crossed over and passed through the doorway into Holmes’s room. Lestrade looked around at the pictures of famous criminals which covered every wall. Then he strode over to the fireplace. The mantelpiece was littered with an assortment of revolver cartridges, knives, pipe dottles, postage stamps, odd coins and so on. But one object stood out boldly from all the rest. It was a medical flask, and it was filled to the brim with a dark red fluid. Lestrade gave a low whistle.

‘Blood!’ he cried.

‘Blood?’ I echoed.

‘Port,’ said a voice from the doorway. We whirled around, to find ourselves under the amused scrutiny of Sherlock Holmes. ‘Don’t be misled by the container,’ he went on. ‘It’s a Quinta Noval, the ’53, and should be quite drinkable. I decanted it myself just the other day. But don’t take my word for it! There are glasses in the front room, and a fire. Shall we?’

To a disinterested observer, Lestrade and I must have presented a comical spectacle as we filed sheepishly out of Holmes’s room. But there was no such observer, as Lestrade at once remarked.

‘My constable! Where is he?’

Holmes picked up a coat, a wig, and a beard from the sofa.

‘Here he is!’

‘You!’

Holmes bowed.

‘Then the note you brought was –’

‘Counterfeit.’

‘And the letter, in the killer’s hand?’

‘Ditto.’

‘But the writing –’

‘Pooh! A poor imitation. The “p”s alone should have alerted you.’

‘And my card?’ I put in.

‘Purloined.’

‘But the blood?’

‘Bovine. Best quality calf’s kidney, obtainable at any good butcher’s.’

He handed us each a glass of port. Lestrade threw his back as though it were medicine.

‘So this is what you call helping the police, is it?
Sending
us running off on a wild goose chase when we are stretched to breaking point trying to catch a homicidal maniac. I would have thought you would be ashamed to waste our time with this kind of childish practical joking! Mind you, I don’t deny that your fancy-dress was very well done. You should have gone on the stage, Mr Holmes. I’ve said it before –’

‘And you will say it again,’ interrupted Holmes, unhurriedly filling a pipe.

‘No doubt, sir! No doubt. But the theatre is one thing, and real life is another. If you were in a vaudeville I’d be calling for an encore. As it is, I have a good mind to arrest you for impersonating a police officer.’

‘But I wouldn’t dream of trying to impersonate a police officer, Lestrade! I leave that to you. No, I simply wished to fetch you here, and this seemed as good a way as any.
Besides, my little charade was in keeping with the whole tenor of this affair. Has it never struck you that there is a distinctly theatrical thread running right through this Whitechapel case? No? Well, no matter. Away with the theatre! Let us hear from the proponent of real life. What progress have you been making since we last met?’

Lestrade pulled out a cheap cigar and set it alight.

‘We are proceeding along various paths of enquiry too numerous to mention. I myself have been making progress in several directions at once, but although we have made great strides, we are not as yet in a position to take any definite steps –’

‘Cut it out, Lestrade. Are you any closer to catching this murderer than you were at the same time last month?’

‘It’s not as simple as you seem to think, Mr Holmes. Rome wasn’t –’

‘Have you made any progress in a month, Lestrade? Yes or no?’

‘We have managed to rule out some of the –’

‘Yes or no?’

Lestrade sucked hard at his cigar.

‘No. But we are hopeful that –’

‘Of course, Lestrade, of course. Hope springs eternal. But I fear that the patience of the British public, although great, is not infinite. Another pair of killings like the last and I imagine you may well be invited to consider the possibilities of a career with the North West Mounted Police.’
††