Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (24 page)

Sgt. Byfield sat down in his chair, wiping the mud from Lamb’s boot off his desk, and relaxed. Then the door opened. Two men came in, the second holding a small cardboard box with rapidly shaking hands. Byfield eyed the box suspiciously. “Dare I ask?”

“My name is Joseph Aarons,” the first man said, lowering his hat. “I am secretary for the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. This is Mr. George Lusk. I believe several of your men already know him. We need to speak to Inspector Lestrade. Immediately.”

“Inspector Lestrade is busy at the moment,” Sgt. Byfield looked back at the office. Chief Inspector Brett had arrived before Byfield that morning and went directly into Lestrade’s office, shutting the door behind him. “Can someone else help you?”

Aarons looked at Lusk, who appeared to be close to tears. “It is really quite important, sir. We have received a letter and…something else…from Jack the Ripper.”

~ * * * ~

“I want you to put Doctor Watson under twenty-four hour surveillance,” Chief Inspector Brett said. “That bastard Holmes too! They are responsible for this, and I want them followed. I want them caught in the act!”

“In the act, eh?” Lestrade said. He began rubbing his cheekbones with the tips of his fingers. It still hurt to talk, and it was not made any better by having to endure the pain of speaking to an idiot. Thankfully, the swelling had gone down, but there were still large black-and-blue circles under his eyes.

“Yes, in the bloody act, so that we have irrefutable proof!”

“That’s ingenious, sir. We’ll wait until Dr. Watson is ripping open some poor bird apart, then just as he’s digging his fingers into her uterus, we’ll jump out and say, ‘Drop the organ! You’re under arrest!’”

“Do try not to be stupid, Lestrade.”

“This whole conversation is stupid, Chief Inspector. John Watson is not the Ripper. Case closed. Get somebody else to follow him around if you want.”

“I have had just about enough of your insubordination, Lestrade. You did not back me up on Baker Street, as was your obligation, and I am beginning to have serious doubts about your loyalty to this organization.”

“My loyalty is with those who would make a serious effort to stop these killings, sir. And right now, there seems to be few names on that list, indeed.”

Brett’s eyes lowered, and he took a deep breath. “You know, I like you, Gerard. I really do. You have that fire, that ‘have-at-it’ attitude this division is sorely lacking. Most people see CID as just a platform for advancement. A place to catch the attention of the Department’s upper echelon. Not you, though. You really give a damn about these lowlifes. I understand you perfectly, can you see that? Now, I want you to try and see it from management’s perspective. These Ripper killings are making us all look bad. Especially in the highest ranks of the department, who, may I remind you, have the ear of some incredibly powerful people. Everyone wants these killings stopped, and if we do that, who knows what the reward will be? Christ, Gerard, there could be bloody knighthoods involved. Peerages, or possibly even land!”

The room was silent as Lestrade observed Brett’s sweaty brow and thin, quivering lips. “Sir, I am just a simple policeman trying to catch this lunatic before he guts another bunter. I don’t know about any of that other stuff.”

Brett’s face reddened. “You are a stupid, stubborn bastard who is going to drag this whole police station down with him if you do not smarten up, Lestrade!”

“Excuse me, sirs,” Sgt. Byfield said, knocking on the office door. “I hate to interrupt such an intimate moment, but I have a man out front who says Jack the Ripper mailed him a letter and a special little present.”

“Really?” Brett jumped from the desk, “I will handle this, Lestrade. Try to watch and learn how to correctly pursue a fresh lead. Excuse me, Sergeant.” Byfield stood in the doorway, looking down at Brett. Finally, he moved, but just enough so that Chief Inspector was forced to squeeze by.

Lestrade and Byfield smiled at one another. “You really should not mess about with him like that, Sergeant Byfield,” Lestrade said. “He just finished telling me how he is a high-ranking official with connections to the upper echelon of the Department. In fact, if things go according to his plan, he might even be knighted.”

Byfield smirked, “Who, him? He’s just another CID prat that ain’t in my food chain. Just like you, you French bastard.”

“Who are you calling high-ranking?” Lestrade said, smiling. “When this is all finished, I’ll be lucky to work here scrubbing the floors.”

Within moments, Chief Inspector Brett came back into Lestrade’s office carrying a small cardboard box that he kept at arm’s length and away from his body. He was nearly as sheet-white as the two men standing behind him. “I need you to have a look at this, Inspector,” Brett said. He put the box down on the desk and coughed, putting his hand against his mouth.

Lestrade looked at George Lusk and said, “Well, well, Mr. Lusk. Where’s your friend, Mickey Fitch? Bet you thought his lot would protect you once you went about sticking your nose into this sort of thing.”

“I am done with them, Inspector Lestrade. This package came to my home the other day through the post. To my home, Inspector! Where my wife and children sleep! This bastard knows where I live.”

“Calm down, Mr. Lusk,” Joseph Aarons said. “Everything will be all right. Inspector Lestrade will make sure of it.”

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow at Aarons, and moved forward to open the flaps of the box. He recoiled at the horrific odor that escaped from within, then bent to look inside.

TWENTY ONE

Now the cat was telling him that it was time to go find more cocaine. “I am bored.” The cat lazily licked its paws and scrubbed its ears. It did not move its mouth to speak, but Sherlock Holmes heard its voice as clearly as if he were saying the words himself. For a moment he was not sure that it was not, in fact, him speaking. “Let’s go out and grab a few vials. There’s the man down the street who will sell us as many as we like.”

Holmes kicked the cat off of the chair, making it hiss and scramble across the wooden floor into the shadows. He re-read his letter to Francis Darwin by pressing it up to his face, having to squint in the dim firelight to read it.

“Mr. Francis Darwin,

I have finished my study of the findings of both Dr. Henry Faulds and the esteemed Mr. Francis Galton. It is clear that both men are of similarly astute intellects, and keen scientific minds. I would encourage you to approach them with the suggestion that, should they combine their efforts, rather than bicker about who reached whatever conclusion first, the results would be staggering.

Dr. Faulds’ work clearly presents the reasoning behind his theory of the existence of unique fingerprint ridge patterns, but lacks a firm suggestion of a system to classify these patterns in a useable manner.

Mr. Galton builds significantly on those findings and begins to assign scientific terms to each of the multiple lines and shapes found within each print.

Thus, my belief is that by—
”

The cat leapt into Holmes’s lap. It raised a paw and batted the letter out of his hands. “You cannot ignore me any more than you can the thirst in your veins.”

Holmes picked up the letter from the floor and looked into the cats viridian eyes, seeing its sharp-fanged smile curling just beneath. He leaned down so that he was face to face with it. “Listen to me very carefully. I do not want any cocaine.” The words were shaky as they emerged from his mouth. “I do not want any morphine. I do not want any cocaine. I do not want any cocaine or any morphine.” He continued repeating this as he sat back up and returned to the letter.

The cat leapt from his lap and into Watson’s chair. It sat down and began licking itself between the legs. The sound of it purring was like the gears of an industrial machine grinding inside his head. Holmes swept his palm across his face to clear the sweat dripping from his hair. He cleared his throat.

“Thus, my belief is that by simply assigning a numerical value to each of the already scientifically termed shapes, we can accurately label a unique fingerprint in the same way that chemical elements are displayed on the periodic table.

For example, someone trained in fingerprint classification could count the number of Arches, Whorls, Loops, and the variants thereof, and write them mathematically using an agreed-upon manner of display. That way, no matter what part of the world an agent of identification was, he could receive the coordinates of his suspect’s fingerprints and be able to match them or disregard that suspect.

Obviously this is all—
”

The scabs covering his arms itched maddeningly.

Holmes studied the bruised blue flesh and small puncture marks lining his arm from the wrist to bicep. He bent over the chair and searched the piles of papers and books scattered there. “Where is it?” he asked nervously.

He found several pieces of dried-out food buried under the papers, left from when Mrs. Hudson had brought him his last meal before fleeing the house. He threw them into the fire. “Here we are!” he announced triumphantly.

He lifted the instrument case from the floor and set it in his lap. There was a thick layer of dust covering the case, and Holmes blew most of it off, feeling clouds of it go into his nose. His eyes welled up and his nose began to run as he popped the latches, but Holmes still smiled as he removed the violin and held it up to the light.

He ran his fingers along the instrument’s dark, chestnut surface, stroking its deep belly and broad waist with the affection and familiarity of a lover. Holmes wrapped his fingers around her solid neck and over her fine, sturdy fingerboard, putting his ear against her as plucked one of the strings. A perfectly tuned note reverberated in response. It was the sound of peace.

Holmes put the violin against his chin and touched his bow to the strings, sliding it across the surface, but the instrument whined in complaint at his inability to form a proper note with his cramped fingers. The cat opened its mouth for a wide yawn, and Holmes threw the violin at it.

A voice boomed from below the steps, “Sherlock? Is that you up there? What in God’s name has happened here? Who the bloody hell are all of you people?”

“Mycroft?” Holmes whispered, clutching his blanket. He panicked as he looked around the room, seeing the state of it. “No! Do not come up here! I forbid it!”

There were voices crying out and the sounds of things crashing against the walls below. “I’ll thrash the lot of you buggers! Get the hell out of here, you filth!” Mycroft shouted. “Come back and I’ll pitch you off the damn roof!”

The front door slammed shut and there were heavy footfalls on the stairs as Mycroft hurried up them. “Hang on man, I am coming!”

“It is not safe to come in here!” Holmes shouted. “You must stay outside.”

“Stop being ridiculous.” Mycroft Holmes opened the door to 221 B and his eyes grew wide as his voice trailed off. Mycroft’s massive frame filled the doorway and it took him several moments to catch his breath. “My God…I had no idea this was what Watson meant.”

“Please, Mycroft, go away,” Holmes groaned. “I do not want you to see me like this.”

“I was asked me to look in on you,” Mycroft said softly. He looked around in wonder at the state of the apartment, then back at his brother. “Watson sent me a postcard asking me to check on you while he was away. He warned me you would not appreciate the visit, however, I had no idea it had come to this.”

“Watson, eh? Leave it to him to interfere with my life, even as he trots around the East End looking to get himself killed.”

Mycroft waded through the garbage littering the floor to sit in Watson’s chair. “You know, I’ve always suspected that without Watson or Mrs. Hudson around, you would not be able to care for yourself. You are the kind of man who gets so wrapped up in his work that he would forget to bother to the minor details of existence, like eating, drinking, or apparently bathing. As usual, I was right.”

“As you almost always are, is that not correct, Mycroft?”

“It is true that I am disposed of a singularly advanced intellect. Do not fret, brother. You are also gifted, in your own way. I admit to having always envied you and your position in the world.”

“Do not patronize me, Mycroft,” Holmes said.

“You see, my life consists of taking in all the facts as they are reported to me from every corner of the Empire, constantly calculating the tonnage and weight-ratios of the various supply lines, or the ammunition capacity of conceptualized rifles. Some petty dictator is stirring up trouble and we need a well-placed scandal to bring him down a few pegs, and it falls to me to put the events in motion that may take years to unfold. But you, little brother, you chose to come here and mingle amongst the common man. You chose to apply yourself to their petty problems and dalliances. I find it all quite charming. Quaint, even.”

“Get out, Mycroft. Whatever you meant to accomplish here, it is a useless endeavor. I ask you to please leave.”

Mycroft took a long look at him. Holmes instinctively covered his arms with the blanket, pulling it tight to his chest. Mycroft shook his head sadly, but did not move from his chair. “Mother would be most disappointed, Sherlock.”

“Oh, shut up, Mycroft.”

“She favored you, you know. You were her baby. As for our father, alas, he was of a different sort. What did Father call you? Oh, that’s right. His ‘Little Accident.’ That is what this is all about, right? All this showing up of Scotland Yard at every turn, pissing all over the people closest to you just to prove how much you do not need them. Here you are claiming to be the greatest criminal investigator of your era but you refuse to participate in the single most desperate investigation in this country’s history? You are an odd one, Sherlock. Perhaps Father was right about you.”