Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (10 page)

Holmes gripped me so firmly that I winced, holding me in place while he fished inside my pocket for the letter. “Give it to me, Watson. At once.” Holmes found the letter, lifting it close to his face for inspection as he turned it end over end, then held it to his nose, inhaling deeply.

“You should not be standing, Holmes. Come, sit down,” I said, taking him by the elbow. “Whatever are you carrying on about?”

“Do you not recognize this envelope, Watson? Have you not seen precisely this same paper stock once before?” His voice was shaking. Holmes cocked his head to the framed photograph hanging on the far wall.

I looked again at the letter and my eyes widened. The air whistled from my pursed lips. “Her?”

“The woman.”

We both knew that for Sherlock Holmes there could only ever be one woman. In March of that year, Holmes received a visit from a client who claimed anonymity. He was the King of Bohemia. King Wilhelm required Holmes’ professional assistance, and was willing to pay handsomely for both a resolution to the matter, and the utmost discretion. Holmes was not only famous for sorting out cases that baffled the Inspectors of Scotland Yard, but his was also a preferred method because he could be trusted not to reveal any of the sometimes damaging details of his findings.

The King confided to us that he was engaged to marry a woman of great standing and repute in the near future. He mentioned that the woman’s lineage would link him to Scandinavian royal family, and boost both his standing in the international community, as well as his coffers. We congratulated him, but the King’s face turned dark. Recently he had been contacted by a woman in possession of a photograph depicting him in a somewhat compromising position.

King Wilhelm advised us that he was being blackmailed over the photograph by a woman of iniquitous genius. The Great Detective would find himself evenly matched. My written account of the incident reflects that the King referred to his nemesis, Irene Adler, as extraordinarily “quick and resolute”. In truth, it would have been more accurate to say that his words were, “She is an evil, cunning wench.”

Holmes was tasked with retrieving the photograph by any means, going so far as to commit arson to create a distraction while he searched for it, but was thwarted by Adler again. One day, in the midst of it all, Adler simply vanished. She said she had grown tired of the game. Her last communication was in a letter to Holmes left in an envelope matching the one delivered by Mrs. Hudson. The envelope contained a photograph, but not the one the King sought. That one was safely tucked away, Adler wrote, as insurance in the event that she should ever need it. The new photograph was a portrait of Irene Adler, displaying a subtle, mischievous smile.

The King, satisfied that his wedding could commence without Adler’s interference, offered Holmes a priceless emerald snake ring from his own finger as a reward. Holmes refused, asking only that he be allowed to keep that new portrait of Irene Adler.

At first, I suspected he meant only to have a photographic record of such a capable opponent. When it appeared on our wall several days later, I began to think that finally my best friend had found something to appreciate in the finer sex besides their ability to cook food for him and sometimes provide an efficient means to assist his investigations. We had discussed the matter only once. “When all else fails, Watson, men can be relied on to serve two masters: Greed and Need. A man can be entrusted with the most dearly-held information, sworn to keep it secret through torture and deprivation, but most cannot resist the power of a trollop.”

“Must you be so cold, Holmes? Have you no compassion for our kind who are held in sway by the majesty and allure of the fairer sex?” I asked.

“None whatsoever.”

“Well, perhaps you have not had the right woman then! Every sailor worth his salt will talk endlessly about French women, but I suspect they have had little experience elsewhere. Now, an olive-skinned Greek woman with long dark hair and eyes that hold the mysteries of the Ancient Gods themselves…that will turn your head quite around, I assure you. And Oriental girls, my goodness, they—”

“Enough, Watson!” Holmes cried, waving his hand in my face. “I must concentrate on my work. I insist you be quiet.”

“Come on, Holmes,” I prodded. “It is just us, having a gentlemanly discussion about the ways of the world. Stop being such a prig. What kind of woman do you prefer? Big-bosomed fair-haired ones, or sleek, tiny waifs?”

Holmes regarded me carefully for a moment, and his face grew still. He took a deep breath, weighing his words before finally saying, “I prefer silent ones.”

~ * * * ~

I looked at the envelope in his hands, frowning. “Still, Holmes, how can you be certain that letter is from Irene Adler?” I had no wish to see his hopes stirred in this condition, and I feared having them dashed would sink him only deeper into despair.

“It has her scent.” He drew a long, thin dagger from the side table and attempted to slit the envelope. His fingers shook as he tried to hold the blade steady enough so as not to damage the letter. “Look at me, Watson! You have made me an invalid. I can barely keep my eyes focused, and when I do, my stomach turns sideways and threatens to throw me into convulsions. Fetch me the bottle from my Moroccan case, please? I need it, Watson. I beg you.”

I stood up, looming over Holmes, pressing my fists against my hips. “I will do no such thing. Neither will I allow you to, even it means battering you senseless. Give me the letter and blade and I will remove it.”

“You are a fumbling buffoon! Your childish fingers will only damage it! You are an idiot, a bungler, a-”

“I beg your pardon, Holmes! I have removed bullets from the lungs of screaming soldiers on Afghan battlefields. I can manage this damned letter.”

Holmes handed it to me with great apprehension. He lifted the blade, and for a moment I thought he was deciding whether to stick it in me. I snatched the handle and expertly slit the length of the envelope in one fluid motion. Several pieces of paper fluttered out of the folds and onto the floor.

“These two are newspaper clippings, Holmes,” I said, picking them off the ground. “This one is from September First. It is about a woman, who was murdered…butchered, really, in Whitechapel.”

Holmes lifted the second one. “This is from Lloyd’s, dated September Ninth. There was a second murder, not far from the first. Both appear to have been quite grisly. Listen to this, Watson. On April Third, a woman in Spitalfields was assaulted and ravished. She died the next day. On August Seventh, a woman was murdered on High Street after being stabbed thirty-nine times.” He looked at me and I shrugged, holding up my hands that I had no idea what he was talking about. Holmes looked back to the article, continuing, “On August Thirty-First, Mary Ann Nichols had her throat slashed and belly mutilated. She was found on Buck’s Road. Then, three days ago, Eliza Annie Chapman’s body was found behind a house on Hanbury Street. Her throat was cut, and although the article avoids many details, it is safe to say that her mutilations were the most extreme yet.” Holmes threw down the article and gasped with exasperation. “Why wasn’t I informed of these horrific murders, Watson?” he demanded.

“I’ve been here with you every day for weeks, Holmes!” I said. “How was I supposed to know if we did not hear it together?”

“You have been to see Mary on several occasions! You could have heard of it then,”

“Are you daft, man? Does murder seem like the proper conversation to have with my sweet Mary? I have seen so little of her that she thinks I’ve either died or lost interest in marrying her!” I took a deep breath, giving Holmes a moment to settle as well. “Regardless, even if I had known, you are in no state to pursue any investigations at this point.”

“Has it not occurred to you that an investigation is precisely the diversion I require to spring back to life, Watson? Instead of sitting in this funeral chamber, rotting, I could be enjoying the thrill of the hunt!”

“No,” I said, shaking my head firmly. “This is how it always happens. I nearly get you well, and you manage to convince me why you need to go running off on some damned adventure. Then, when it is finished, you end it with sticking a needle in your arm. This is now a matter of life or death, and I intend to see it through.”

Holmes lifted the third piece of paper, containing a carefully handwritten letter. He tried to read it, clutched his eyes and handed it to me, cursing.

I took the letter, sitting back in my chair.

My Dearest Holmes,

I trust you are recovering. Obviously, the only explanation for the lack of fantastic arrests credited to Scotland Yard under seemingly impossible circumstances is this: The Great Detective is not performing his duties.

As you may be aware, there have been a series of murders in Whitechapel. I have too high of an opinion of you to suspect that the killings of such lowly subjects is not sufficient to arouse the interest of you and your Boswell. Perhaps I can propose something that will stimulate you to action.

Let us combine forces, Holmes. You and I should partner in this endeavor, chasing this villain down together.

Yours,

Irene Adler

“Perhaps her company is exactly what you need to lift your spirits, Holmes. It might help expedite the healing process,” I said.

“Were you not the one who just said I was not allowed to go running off on some damned adventure?”

“I did not say go running off, Holmes. But we could find a way to participate. I mean, really, four innocent women? Butchered like that?”

“You consider them innocent, Watson?”

I thought for a moment, lighting my pipe and sitting back in the chair. “Perhaps they cannot be considered such. After all, they are indeed whores, and to make it even worse they choose to ply their trade in the filthiest, most crime-ridden part in all of England.”

Holmes sighed, “That is not what I meant.”

“Well then what was it?”

“No one is innocent,” he said, taking Irene Adler’s letter and the press clippings out of my hand and sliding them into the fire. They instantly flared and burned, breaking into tiny bits of ash that floated into the air.

EIGHT

Irene Adler woke screaming.

It had happened every night since she’d casually opened the Daily Mail’s September Tenth edition, and the headline “Another Murder in Whitechapel” caught her eye. She’d read the first paragraph with morbid fascination but as soon as she read the victim’s name, her hands began shaking.

The dream always began the same. She was backstage, crouched in the wings of London’s Royal Opera House. She pulled aside a handful of curtain and leaned out just enough to see the audience. The stagehands were gossiping excitedly that it was the largest crowd to ever attend the theater. Adler swallowed, seeing that even the standing-room only sections were crowded. A man came up behind her and said, “Isn’t it bad luck to count the house before the curtain rises?”

She turned to see the seeing the sinister grin of Oscar Wilde. “Mr. Wilde, you devil. You swore you weren’t coming this evening.”

“The Devil himself could not keep from attending tonight,” Wilde said. Irene pressed her hand against her face, pretending to blush. “You see, the French circus troupe is performing tonight. They are renowned for many things, you know.”

“Such as?”

He sniffed the sunflower pinned to his lapel and looked sideways at a lithe lad with green greasepaint smeared across his bare torso. “Their physical prowess, and such. They are said to be contortionists of the highest order. Perhaps one of them might be willing to give me a demonstration later? It might be the sort of thing to cheer me up. I found a gray hair this morning, and fear that I have lost my youth.”

“Well then,” Irene said, looking at the male performer, “we shall have to see what we can do about finding you another one.”

Wilde pulled Irene close and whispered in her ear, “If you tell anyone I am a sentimentalist, I will put a curse upon you that makes your perfect breasts droop to your knees, my darling. But I would not have missed your final performance for anything in the world.”

Irene pushed Wilde back, “Who told you it was my final performance?”

“You did, with all your talk of adventuring and getting on with seeing the world,” Wilde shrugged. “And how I fear for that world you are about to be unleashed upon.”

“What world is that, Mr. Wilde?”

“The world of Man. All those poor, unsuspecting members of the species who will fall powerless to your gaze. Do try and send some of your forlorn conquests my way when you are through with them.”

“How fortunate that you are immune to my charms,” she said, putting her arm in his.

“Who knows? For you, even I might be persuaded to give it a whirl.”

“You are a scoundrel, and I love you for it, Mr. Wilde. Will you be accompanying me to dinner after the show? I could introduce you to some of these performers. From what I’ve gathered, there are several who may be inclined to demonstrate some of that prowess to you.”

Wilde smiled and pinched her cheek, “You naughty, naughty little vixen. May I bring my friend? He’s the one who arranged my seat for the evening. I warn you, he is a bit of an eccentric. I fear that he will take to you like a small puppy, and that you, in your predatory nature, will swallow him up in one bite.”

“Who is he?” Irene said.

“No fewer than the King of Bohemia, my dove. He’s also a Grand Duke something-something. I do not really know. I just call him Wilhelm. I am cruel to him and he buys me things.”

“I suppose I could stand some amusement,” Irene said. “I will see you after the performance.”

Wilde bowed deeply to Irene and kissed her hand, “Best of luck this evening, my little songbird. Jenny Lind herself could not hold a candle to you.” As Wilde left, circus performers from the opening act began to filter into the wings. The lights dimmed, and there was a sudden explosion of light and sound as the curtain opened and the performers somersaulted onto the stage, assembling themselves into a V-shaped formation. Irene went to her dressing room and began to unbutton her wrapper, assessing the assortment of makeup carefully arranged in front of the mirror. A knock at the door threatened to steal the quiet moment of reverie from her even as she reflected on Oscar Wilde’s observation that tonight was her final performance. She hadn’t said a word to anyone.