Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (22 page)

“She left after a rather ugly incident. You would not happen to partake of cocaine by any chance, would you?” Holmes said.

“I am afraid not.”

“Morphine, perhaps? Any narcotic, really.”

“Never,” Darwin replied.

Holmes sighed. “Very well then, what seems to be the trouble, Mr. Darwin? Are you in danger?”

“No,” Darwin said. “I have a rather embarrassing situation and require someone with a good bit of reason and perhaps a tiny dash of knowledge about the elements involved. A friend recommended you as the perfect man for the job, and I thought it best to call on your expertise.”

“I will make you an offer,” Holmes said. “If you are able to meet my conditions, I will hear out your tale.”

“You have but to name them.”

“First, my assisting you must not involve me having to leave the confines of this apartment. And for payment, I want you to agree to answer a series of questions for me, no matter what they are. And you must not inquire as to why I am asking them.”

“That sounds acceptable,” Darwin said.

“Then you, sir, may begin.”

Darwin removed several envelopes from his coat, sifting through them until he found the one he was looking for. “Here it is,” he said. “In 1880, my father received this letter from Henry Faulds, a British doctor living in Japan. Dr. Faulds was working at the Tsukiji Hospital in Tokyo and, to pass the time, he began excavating for pottery around the countryside. During one of these expeditions, Dr. Faulds found a five hundred year old fragment of a jar, and was amazed at what he saw.”

“A rare relic worth millions?” Holmes inquired.

“No, the fragment was of no monetary value at all. Rather, it was something imprinted on the surface of the clay, an impression left by the artisan that crafted it so many years before. He found what he came later to call a fingerprint. Dr. Faulds became obsessed with the idea that the lines contained within this fingerprint were different from his, and that his were different from those of everyone that he encountered. As fate would have it, someone later broke into the medical supply room at the hospital where he worked, and a janitor was promptly arrested for the crime. A handprint was found on the glass inside the room, and Dr. Faulds was able to convince the Keishicho Police that the fingerprints of the accused and those found at the scene of the crime did not match. The janitor was summarily released.”

“Most interesting,” Holmes said.

“Dr. Faulds felt he was onto something huge and immediately flew back to London for a meeting with Sir Charles Warren, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. All that he requested was the funding and support for the design of a system which could be used to classify the fingerprints of criminals and potentially change the face of criminal investigations around the world.”

“Being somewhat familiar with Sir Charles, I can deduce the results of that meeting,” Holmes said.

“If by that you mean it ended poorly, you are correct,” Darwin said. “Sir Charles saw absolutely no merit to possessing the fingerprints of criminals. Dr. Faulds was left at a loss. He suspected the enormity of his discovery, but had little idea how to go about verifying it scientifically. He was in quite a predicament.”

Holmes pondered the story carefully, and then smiled. “Naturally, he contacted the only person he could think of with experience in unraveling monumentally complicated scientific conundrums. Your father.”

“Exactly,” Darwin said, holding up the letter. “My father read through Dr. Faulds’s letter and inspected his own fingers. I remember him saying, ‘It all sounds remarkably interesting, but I have enough of my own problems.’ He forwarded the letter to our cousin Francis Galton.” Darwin took a deep breath, “For all that my father was in the field of science, I confess Cousin Francis to be twice that. At the time Father sent him the letter, Francis was simultaneously inventing the Quincunx Machine and formulating the basis for his eugenics philosophy. Francis Galton is a prolific intellect, Mr. Holmes. He has more proven theories, papers, inventions and awards to his name than I could ever dream.”

“I sense an ‘And yet’ is lingering in there somewhere,” Holmes said.

Darwin hung his head and closed his eyes. “And
yet
, eight years after my father sent Francis Galton this very letter from Dr. Henry Faulds regarding his discovery of the human fingerprint, Galton authored a paper proclaiming his own discovery of the same exact thing. Suffice to say, Dr. Faulds is not amused.”

“Understandably so,” Holmes said. “Is it a complete facsimile of Faulds’s discovery, or only a strong resemblance?”

“It has both enough differences and similarities to be argued either way, Mr. Holmes.”

“I do not see what it is that I can do for you, Mr. Darwin. It would seem that this is a matter best left to the courts, perhaps? I am no arbiter.”

“I understand that, and certainly, it may very well come to that, but in the mean time I feel that someone must at least make an effort on behalf of the greater good. I personally believe that this science is more valuable than the name of the man who gets to lay claim to inventing it. I had hoped your unique perspective might provide some needed guidance to both parties and help them set aside their own differences in order to better serve humanity.”

Holmes chuckled and looked around the room. “Perhaps I am not the person you wish to have speak on behalf of the greater good, Mr. Darwin.”

“You are the only person, sir,” Darwin said. “Whether it suits you or not.”

“Do you have copies of both the letter and Galton’s paper that you could leave for me?”

“I do,” Darwin said.

“Put them on the table and I will look them both over and tell you what my thoughts are after I have had time to consider the problem. That seems to be the best I can offer you at this time.”

Darwin laid both items on the table and sat back down, folding one leg over the other. “And now, you wanted to ask me some questions?”

Holmes sat up in his chair, stretching as if he had not moved in so long that his limbs would snap off if he shifted them too quickly. He tapped his finger against his chin, eyes suddenly lighting up. “Tell me something. Is this Francis Galton bald also?”

“As an egg.”

Holmes smiled briefly, but his eyes remained fixed intently on Darwin, taking the man’s measure as his mind collected the available information from his observations. “Most interesting. I am somewhat familiar with your father’s writings. Particularly, I am fond of his ideas about the struggle all living things must endure to survive. It makes sense to me that on the surface of things, the world is completely chaotic, with millions of different species of life co-existing on the same planet simultaneously, interacting at random. But your father’s idea was that beneath that layer of chaos, all is actually perfectly ordered. Each of those species is held in check by several others, so that no one is ever out of balance.”

“Yes,” Darwin said. “That sounds right.”

“Did your father ever speculate what would happen if there was an imbalance? If one of the more aggressive species began taking hold over the others?” Holmes said.

“Can you give me an example?” Darwin said.

“Let us say that there is a large pond, and the pond is filled with a variety of fish. Some fish feed off of the scum at the surface. Some fish feed from the scum at the bottom. Other, more sinister groups feed on those fish, and likewise, there are larger ones who feed on those as well. It is all one perfectly balanced system of life where each member of the habitat understands the rules of existence. They could live that way forever.” Holmes leaned forward and lowered his voice, “But, what if a new species were suddenly introduced into the pond? A wildly aggressive, intelligent, predatory creature bent only on destroying whatever stood in its path? A creature so outside of the norm that it was like nothing ever seen before. What would its effect be?”

Darwin sat back, folding his hands together. “I suppose, theoretically, if that new species upset the balance of the pond enough, it would eventually lead to complete and utter extinction.”

Holmes sat back and let the air out of his chest, as if he were deflating. “Extinction,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “I have nothing further to ask you, sir. Kindly show yourself out, Mr. Darwin.”

“One moment, Mr. Holmes. I mean this as no offense to you, but your scenario is not plausible. It is like debating what life on our planet would be like if all of us sprouted wings and could fly.”

“Explain,” Holmes said.

“Nature does not allow for one singular member of a species to be suddenly introduced into any environment. There are plenty of examples of incredibly aggressive predators all over the world who regularly prey on the weaker members of their environs. None of them overrun those populations because they are held perfectly in check.”

“By what?” Holmes said as he leaned forward again.

“Other members of the same species, of course. In your pond scenario, that predator would run amok for a little while, but eventually, he would encounter his equal. My father was quite explicit in his statement that the struggle for survival between members of the same species are always most severe. In all actuality, the two predators fight and one would be killed. The second would be injured enough that a lesser species would rush in and finish him off.”

“A sacrifice for the benefit all else, then?”

“What pond is it that we are referring to, exactly, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes lifted his legs onto his chair, covering them with the blanket. “Thank you, Mr. Darwin. I will review your quandary and notify you of my findings in due time. Good day.”

EIGHTEEN

There was a sound was like that of a hundred hammers clanging against sheets of metal that crashed on his skull with such impact that it jarred him. Montague Druitt clutched the sides of his head in agony.

It was time for class.

He wiped the sweat from his face and staggered down the hall, collapsing into the seat at his desk as the students began to filter in. He swept his damp hair from his forehead and sat up, ignoring the concerned looks shot toward him by several of the students.

“Today we will discuss the court of law, and those who serve it. Please get your writing implements ready,” Druitt said, pressing on the desk to get to his feet. “First, we will begin with the barrister. A barrister, you see…appears before the court and presents argument. There is no…ah, no…contact with the person he is…” Druitt licked his lips nervously, gripping the sides of his desk. “There is absolutely no contact made with the accused, so that the court can trust he is impartial-“

The cacophony within him suddenly fell silent, as if a switch had been thrown cutting off their power over him. As Druitt struggled to get on with his lesson, a voice whispered clearly in his ear what he must do next.

Druitt stood frozen for a moment, terrified. The students began to whisper to one another, their voices much less coherent than the one telling him to go to Whitechapel and what he must do there. “No!” Druitt barked. “That is too much.” The clamor returned as instantly as it had vanished with so much force that it made Druitt cry out for it to stop.

“Assistant headmaster?”

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Someone fetch the nurse!”

“No!” Druitt gasped, taking a deep breath. “I am fine. Sit back down at once. I apologize, students. I am not feeling well, but we are nearly finished and must press on. Now, a solicitor, on the other hand, has to…has to….” Druitt looked up at the ceiling and blinked rapidly at the harsh bright light shining over his students heads. Everything else went dark, and Druitt collapsed to the ground where he began shaking violently and foam bubbled from his mouth.

Within the hour, Headmaster George Valentine and Will Druitt were climbing the stairs to the resident teachers’ wing. “It was good of you to come on such short notice, Mr. Druitt,” Valentine said.

“I appreciate the telegram, Headmaster. You said the children reported to you that my brother was yelling?”

“Yes, but apparently it was gibberish. Has he ever suffered fits before?”

“Not that I have ever been made aware of,” Will said. “It is most disturbing.”

They came to Druitt’s door and knocked. Mark Mann, the other Assistant Headmaster opened the door and said, “Come in.” Druitt was sprawled on his cot, sweating profusely. “He hasn’t moved since we brought him up here.”

“Monty?” Will said. “Can you hear me?”

“Blast!” Mr. Valentine said. “Of all the bad timing. We have a meeting at Blackheath on the nineteenth. If Mr. Druitt does not convince them to give us money for the new cricket stands, we will not be able to host the championships next year. We’ve been preparing this for over a year.”

“I assure you that he will be at that meeting, Mr. Valentine,” Will said. “Thank you gentlemen. I will stay with him for now.”

Both Valentine and Mann left the room. Will shut the door and locked it. He sat at the bedside and reached into his coat, removing a syringe and bottle. He loaded the syringe, and leaned forward, putting his lips close to Druitt’s ear. “Can you hear me, Monty?” Will flicked the top of the needle, watching the fluid ooze from the tip and drip down the thin length of steel. “Be strong, little brother. We still have work to do.”

“Oh God, Will,” Druitt whispered. “I am hearing voices now. You must help me. I need to be locked away. Mother’s illness has got hold of me.”

Will patted Druitt’s damp head, smiling gently. “This is only a bad dream, Monty. None of it is real. Go back to sleep. This will calm you.” He pinched the skin of Druitt’s neck and stuck the needle in.

Druitt grimaced, squeezing his brother’s hand. “You are so good to me, Will. We never did go to India, you know? You promised we would. You swore we would have an adventure…” Druitt’s voice trailed off as his eyes fluttered.

“Oh, but we are, little brother. We already are.”

NINETEEN