The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (14 page)

Lord Randolph’s words, though quietly spoken, had a profound chilling effect, the more so because they were delivered in so subdued a manner. Despite his outward restraint, it was obvious that he passionately believed every word that he spoke. And the result was spellbinding. Here was a man whose vocation was to move men with words, and that he did it well was clearly evident. Watson found himself gripping the arms of his chair, and the expression on Holmes’s face was one of rapt attention.

Lord Randolph lifted his eyes and focused on Holmes. “Your brother has discussed these matters with you, I have no doubt.”

“More or less,” replied Holmes quietly.

Lord Randolph reached for another cigarette, lighting it himself this time. “Then you know how potentially serious these Whitechapel crimes are. The revolutionists and anarchists will use them — are already using them — to ferment unrest. We are not sitting on the powder keg as yet, but it is being rolled into the cellars.”

Holmes nodded.

“And the fuse will not be a long one, I fear,” Mycroft added.

“That’s quite true,” Lord Randolph responded. “As you know, there is a growing republican movement in Parliament. A most vocal movement. They begrudge every farthing spent on the upkeep of the monarchy; the debate over the Queen’s allowances gets longer and more vociferous every year. While this movement is essentially middle class in nature, the unrest in the East End serves to add fuel to their fire. The poorer classes have no representation, of course — they have only their gin bottles to turn to. But they’re attracting attention to themselves, and they’re starting to gain the sympathy of some well-placed individuals — in the House and even in the Church, God help us.” He pursed his lips. “Dangerous times, dangerous times.”

Lord Randolph paused and took a sip of whiskey. “These murders
in the East End constitute the most volatile fuel of all, I shouldn’t wonder.” He looked directly at Holmes. “Surely you must see that. Surely you must appreciate the potential dangers.” Suddenly his eyes became fierce. “These crimes must be brought to an end, and swiftly.”

Holmes’s face remained impassive.

Lord Randolph studied him for a moment and then continued. “The police are out of their depth in this matter, that much is apparent to all.” He spoke the words in a monotone, as if he were speaking them to himself. “They are ill equipped to conduct the kind of investigation that is required. Their detective branch is totally demoralized and has no effective head since Anderson’s departure. Their training is insufficient in any case, their methods outmoded. They are just not up to it.”

“No one knows that better than Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I tire of hearing him tell me so.”

Lord Randolph turned to Mycroft. “Did you tell him of Lord Salisbury’s decision?”

Mycroft frowned and shook his head. “I told him of the prime minister’s concern. I did not see fit to disclose a decision made in cabinet that is of a privileged nature.”

Churchill nodded and looked down at his shoes again. “I have just come from Windsor,” he said quietly, like another man might say he has just come from the barber’s, or his wife’s favorite greengrocer. “Her Majesty has expressed a deep personal interest in the matter.”

He lifted his eyes once again and looked directly at Holmes. Leaning over in his chair, he tapped Holmes gently on the arm. “A deep personal interest,” he repeated. “And she mentioned you by name.”

Holmes lowered his eyelids and nodded.

“Well then, that’s settled,” said Lord Randolph, rising. “I must be off.” Holmes and Watson rose with him.

“You will have the full cooperation of the Home Office and Scotland
Yard, I have no doubt,” Lord Randolph said to Holmes. “The Queen has been onto Salisbury, and Salisbury has been onto Matthews, and Matthews will see to it, never fear. And while your brother is quite correct in not sharing confidential government decisions with you, I believe that I, as someone who is no longer in the government, can tell you that you need not concern yourself too much with our friend Sir Charles Warren. I shouldn’t be very much surprised if he were to receive a new appointment sometime soon. Sometime very soon and very far away.”

He shook his head and smiled engagingly, the first time he had done so since joining their company. “Ah, Sir Charles, Sir Charles,” he said with mock gravity. “His solution to every problem is a cavalry charge. My thirteen-year-old son at Harrow would approve; but then, he doesn’t have much sense either. Good day, gentlemen. Don’t bother, Mycroft, I’ll see myself out.”
⁴⁴

Mycroft Holmes, of course, had not stirred from his chair or had he given any indication he intended doing so. And even after Holmes and Watson resumed their chairs to join him, upon Churchill’s departure, there was no conversation among them for several minutes, each being lost in his own thoughts. It was Mycroft finally who broke the silence.

“Interesting man, Randolph,” he mused aloud. “One of the most remarkable men of our times. Could have done great things.” He thought for a moment and then said, apropos of nothing: “Married to an American, you know — a great beauty, but unfortunately not terrible clever. I believe it was Lady Asquith who said, ‘Had Lady Randolph been like her face, she could have governed the world.’ Ha-ha.”

Then a frown quickly overcame his face and he shook his head. “But poor Randolph. I fear for his health.” He turned to Watson. “You took note of it too, I couldn’t help but notice, Doctor.”

“It was that obvious? Oh, dear.”

“An occupational trait, nothing more — to the physician, everyone is a potential patient. I ascertained from the intensity of your facial expression that you were attempting to render a diagnosis — unconscious on your part, I’m sure.”

Watson was no longer surprised at anything Mycroft ascertained. He merely nodded. “He’s quite unwell. Impossible to know the cause without a complete examination, of course.”

“Oh, no mystery there, I fear,” Mycroft replied, placing a fat, well-manicured forefinger beside his nose. But he hurriedly changed the subject, not wanting to betray a confidence or dwell on something unpleasant. “Your glasses are empty. Oh, very well, Bledsoe, bring the decanter. My guests will not be departing so quickly after all.”

The discussion that followed dealt mostly with details about the Whitechapel murders, the latest one in particular, and possible lines of inquiry to pursue. Unfortunately, those were pitifully few. Mycroft agreed with Holmes that in all probability not much could be done unless or until the murderer struck again. “This time perhaps we will be better prepared for him,” said Holmes.

He and Watson departed a short while later, the Diogenes Club the poorer by two more sherries.

It was dark outside when they emerged on the street. The lamplighter had already been by and the reflection of the streetlights flickered against the white marble of the building’s facade.

“You will have to go down to Dartmoor without me on Saturday,” Holmes said to Watson as they descended the steps. “I’ll follow as soon as I can.”
⁴⁵

“You plan to take up the Whitechapel matter again at once, then?”

“Oh, I never put it down.”

“What!” Watson stopped short and stared at him.

“Of course not. Did you think I’d let that insufferable tin soldier
Warren intimidate me? Chase me off like one of his Boers in South Africa? You must not think very highly of me.”

“But... but what was that all about in there, then? Why did you make such a point at first of telling your brother you wouldn’t work on the case?”

“I never!”

“What do you mean? I distinctly heard you tell him before Lord Randolph arrived that you were otherwise committed! I remember your words precisely!”

“Then your memory is faulty. I never used the word
otherwise
, merely
committed
— committed to assist Sir Henry Baskerville, which I am. I did not at any time tell him I had removed myself from the Whitechapel business, nor can I help it if he jumped to that conclusion.”

“But certainly that is what you led him to believe.”

Holmes shrugged and gave Watson a little smile. “Surely I am not responsible for my brother’s beliefs.”

“Holmes! You’re quibbling!”

“Oh, yes,” he agreed cheerfully.

Watson stared at him with a mixture of confusion and exasperation. “Would you kindly tell me what this is all about?”

Holmes laughed. “My dear chap, my beloved brother, Mycroft, is not the only member of my family with political acumen, no matter what he may think. The French blood of Richelieu flows in my veins as well as his, and I, too, know a thing or two about the manipulation of government bureaucrats and politicians. It does no good, for example, to tell those in authority they are responsible for a problem that must be rectified; they merely become defensive and do nothing. They must be led to discover it quietly on their own, then they are more likely to take remedial action. Mycroft’s assistance was invaluable in that regard, as I knew it would be. He was the one who led them to their ‘discovery.’”

“But how could you be so sure they would decide to remove Sir Charles Warren?”

“Oh, I wasn’t. Even though that was the logical course of action for them to take, one can never depend on officialdom to do the logical. And I do not so flatter myself that the threat of withdrawing my humble services would have necessarily been enough to sway the balance against him.”

“Well, then how did you manage it?”

“Oh, I didn’t manage it, I left that to another. The most efficacious way to remove an obstacle in your path is to get someone else to do it for you.”

“Mycroft, you mean?”

He shook his head. “Oh, no, not Mycroft. He would never jeopardize his position by becoming actively involved in something like this. He works behind the scenes, never onstage.”

“Well, who, then?”

Holmes took Watson’s arm and steered him toward the curb. He paused and gazed off into space theatrically. “I shall have to thank Her Majesty, should I ever again have the honor and good fortune of being favored with an audience. Lord Randolph Churchill is not the only one who pays calls to Windsor, Watson.”

P
ART
T
WO

THE WHITECHAPEL HORRORS

HORRIBLE MURDER OF A

WOMAN NEAR COMMERCIAL ROAD

Another Woman Murdered

and Mutilated in Aldgate

One Victim Identified

Bloodstained Postcard

From “Jack the Ripper”

A Homicidal Maniac

or

Heaven’s Scourge for Prostitution

—
The Evening News
,

Monday, October 1, 1888

S
ATURDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
29-M
ONDAY
, O
CTOBER
1, 1888

“I am not sure that of all the five hundred cases of capital importance which I have handled, there is one which cuts so deep.”

—
The Hound of the Baskervilles

“S
ir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready on the appointed day, and we started as arranged for Devonshire,” wrote Dr. Watson in the account that was to be entitled
The Hound of the Baskervilles
.

And also as arranged, Holmes remained behind in London, charging Watson with the responsibility of protecting the young baronet from whatever sinister force it was that took the life of his uncle on the moors of Devon, instructing the doctor on how best to pursue the investigation in his place until such time that he himself would be able to arrive on the scene. Until then Watson was to communicate with him periodically by mail: The post being swift and dependable, Holmes could count on receiving his reports in Baker Street by the very next day. “I wish you simply to report facts to me in the fullest manner possible,” was his parting directive, “and you can leave me to do the theorizing.”

Watson, once embarked on this new adventure, keenly felt the weight of his responsibility and quickly put out of mind all thoughts of London and the events in Whitechapel, the tangled affairs of the city receding from his consciousness in almost direct proportion to his physical distance from them. And once surrounded by Devon’s bleak and forbidding countryside and absorbed in the sinister goings-on in and around Baskerville Hall, London and all of its bustle, all of its worldiness and self-importance, seemed distant and remote, and all of its problems and all of its concerns became reduced in magnitude.

But not for long.

Two days after his arrival at Baskerville Hall he was to pick up a day-old copy of
The Times
and, in shock and in horror, read the following report:

MORE MURDERS AT THE EAST END

In the early hours of yesterday morning two more horrible murders were committed in the East End of London, the victim in both cases belonging, it is believed, to the same unfortunate class. No doubt seems to be entertained by the police that these terrible crimes were the work of the same fiendish hands which committed the outrages which had already made Whitechapel so painfully notorious.

The scenes of the two murders just brought to light are within a quarter of an hour’s walk of each other, the earlier-discovered crime having been committed in a yard in Berner Street, a low thoroughfare out of the Commercial Road, while the second outrage was perpetrated within the city boundary, in Mitre Square, Aldgate.