The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes (19 page)

“Holmes, what the hell are you doing?” I cried, outraged that he had allowed the Ripper to walk straight past him.

“Quiet, Watson! Or you shall give the game away,” he urgently whispered. “We must proceed with caution; we have him in our sights.”

“But what about the woman?”

“The woman is most likely dead, Watson; we cannot help her. Now follow my lead.”

Silently, we crept into the school, the door not so much as creaking under Holmes' delicate touch. Finally we were out of the open, and plummeted into a muted silence; only the elements could now be heard, banging upon the windows. We went through an open doorway into an abandoned corridor; the cheerful patter of playful feet had long since vacated this haunting building. Empty classrooms, filled with single desks were no longer occupied by innocence and mischief, only hollow spirits. There was a dull glow at the end of the hallway, and we soon came to a small room.

Standing with his back to us was the devilish figure of Jack the Ripper. He stood, arms by his sides, an eight-inch blade firmly grasped in his right hand, dripping with the undeniable crimson of fresh blood. On his right, laid upon a small table, were his other demonic instruments of savage mutilation. Holmes took out his revolver and gradually edged his way forward. The Ripper descended murderously over his victim, when suddenly, Holmes grasped him by the throat, revolver to his temple.

“I think that is quite enough, don't you,” said Holmes, forcing the Ripper to his knees, “
dear brother
.”

Such was my shock at this statement that I confess I almost fell to
my
knees.

“Mycroft?” I exclaimed, forcing myself past in order to confirm Holmes's accusation.

The sight which awaited me was one which would cause the icy grip of fear to clasp even the stoutest of hearts. Previously in the evening, Mycroft's eyes had been their usual watery grey: cold, calculating, yet human. Now I found myself staring into the malevolent chasms that were the eyes of Jack the Ripper. I almost balked when confronted by this sight. Screams, visions of torture and terrible violence pierced my vision, as though the victims themselves were trying to escape from their hell.

“
Bravo
Sherlock,” said Mycroft, a subdued and subtle violence penetrating his usually lofty tone. “I thought I had hoodwinked you yet again.”

“Holmes, what is the meaning of this?” I demanded, raising my weapon and aiming it at point-blank range into the temple of the Ripper.

“Calm yourself, Watson! We shall move ourselves into a room of more comfort and leave this unfortunate woman.”

Never have I seen looks of such pure menace. Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes locked eyes with hatred so fierce that I became unnerved at the prospect at meeting either gaze; it was clear they were now brothers only by blood.

“The girl is alive, Holmes, and merely unconscious,” I said, relieved.

“The girl is not important, Watson, leave her. She is safe now and we have far more pressing issues to attend,” said Holmes, his barrel never so much as an inch from his brother's skull as he led Mycroft out and into another of the abandoned classrooms.

While I blocked the only exit, Holmes forced Mycroft onto a chair, before lighting two lamps and taking a seat behind a large desk, his revolver rested upon the surface, aimed directly at the heart of his brother. As I joined my friend and took a seat at his desk, I could not help but admire his ability to completely detach himself from his cases: never would I have believed it possible for even he to remain in a state of such total composure.

“Come, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, visibly amused. “How long have you known my little secret?”

“Since our visit to George Chapman,” said he, lighting a cigarette.

“Holmes!”

“My goodness, it took you that long? Come, dear brother, perhaps you were lost at Reichenbach after all.”

“Holmes, you have known the identity of Jack the Ripper for over a week, and you have not confided in me? I am appalled at your lack of trust!”

“Do not be hysterical, Watson,” said he. “You are fully aware that you have my complete trust in these matters; however, this was a problem of such delicacy that I needed to be absolutely certain of my conclusions. Would you have ever been able to look at me in the same light again if I had wrongfully suspected my own brother of such crimes? The trust and foundations of our friendship could be shattered, and I would have been no closer to my goal.”

“Yes, yes, of course… I am sorry.”

“You deduced your conclusions from the fingers, I presume,” said Mycroft, an air of boredom his only response to my outburst.

“Of course.”

“Holmes,” said I. “How could you have possibly made the link from those fingers to
Mycroft
being Jack the Ripper? They contained no remarkable features.”

“That is not so Watson; the fingers were certainly remarkable, and it was precisely because I
knew
they had been planted that I told the Inspectors that they
could
have been. I did not wish to share my suspicions, but I hinted at least at the more than likely weakness in their theory; but alas, they did not listen.”

“But how on earth could you have been certain?”

“Because, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes, his gaze briefly meeting my own. “The fingers found in the lodgings of George Chapman once belonged to Irene Adler.”

“Irene Adler!” I cried, as haunting visions began to torment my mind. Flashes of dainty elegance, delicate beauty and kindly grace were fiendishly twisting into visions of horror: the slashed throat, the eyes, the torn face and ripped body. A woman of such magnificence, ungraciously slumped, murdered in a church doorway. How could any man commit such atrocities? Even for someone of Mycroft's detachment, surely this was a step too far. To defile any woman in such a manner is the act of a sadistic coward, but to have ripped apart such beauty and robbed the world of such a singular woman without so much as a glimmer of remorse was more than I could withstand. “Holmes, even for you, surely that is a farcical conclusion: how could you have deduced this information with such insufficient evidence?”

“The ring, Watson, it was the ring. It was made of a distinctively valueless compound, but the craftsmanship made it rather unique. Miss Adler had acquired it as a token of appreciation from a once-great tradesman who had fallen upon ruin; there is no doubt that it was her.”

“Ah yes, I thought you might have needed a bit of a
helping hand
,” said Mycroft, allowing himself a singular, perverse laugh.

“I would advise you keep such comments to a minimum, Mycroft,” said Holmes, as I cocked my pistol. “I may not be willing to allow Watson to sacrifice himself in order to see you brought to justice, but do not for
one second
believe that I shall not personally accompany you into the depths of hell, if you so push me.”

“But this is impossible, Holmes!” said I.

“Have I touched a nerve, Sherlock?” mocked Mycroft. “I thought you were above such common flaws. It must have been quite difficult for you to discover the truth. I hear she was quite the woman,
the
woman, one might say. Unfortunate that someone so remarkable shared the same end as those other wretched hags. You should know that I was quite gentle with her, Sherlock. I thought you would appreciate a more delicate touch.”

It is impossible for me to accurately describe the expression which had intruded onto my friend's face: never have I seen such malice. It was as if all human emotion had drained from his being, leaving his countenance to bear the resemblance of one completely void. Yet despite this vacancy, there was something in the depths of his aura, a calculated and murderous fury which simmered ferociously behind his eyes. He made no move, and simply sat still, transfixed upon his treacherous brother. I had always harboured a minor suspicion of Holmes's true capabilities, but I had been able to laugh off certain inklings through the comforting knowledge of our friendship: never again could I dismiss such trepidations.

“I wish it were impossible, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes, toneless in his response. “But as I have told you before, once you eliminate all possibilities, that which remains must be the truth. I have spent my time since my enlightenment contemplating counter-theories, but none would suffice. I do not believe in ghost stories or the supernatural; the idea that this mysterious man could have been Moriarty was a hypothesis I could not accept. It had to be someone else, an agent with the intellectual prowess and power to achieve such a feat, and Mycroft was the only man alive capable of toying simultaneously with both Moriarty and myself.”

“That may be so, Holmes, but why would Mycroft wish to commit these atrocities?”

“A lowly priest has to look after his flock, does he not, Dr Watson?” said Mycroft.

“What the devil do you mean?” I demanded, as Holmes appeared quite content to lazily sit back in his chair and smoke whilst his brother divulged this most shocking of tales.

“Journey back to 1888, gentlemen, and the great game being played by my dear brother here and the late Professor Moriarty: the great detective, the
foremost man of the law
, was being beaten, Dr Watson!” said Mycroft, with a most sickening smirk. “Professor Moriarty was arguably the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen: he was a threat to this great city and to this country. The stranglehold he commanded had become quite insufferable. As Sherlock has undoubtedly informed you, Dr Watson, I am the secret-keeper, the central exchange of the British Government. Everywhere I turned, I saw the mark of this man penetrating the very core of this great nation: the corner-stones of our society, age-old institutions were being perversely molested by a man most people had never even heard of! I could not allow this to continue. This man quite simply
had
to be stopped, and if there was one man who could bring this Napoleon of crime to justice it was, of course, Sherlock Holmes! Or so I once naively believed. You failed, Sherlock. That is, until you were given a little extra motivation.

“I hatched an elaborate plan, designed specifically to arouse the full potential of my darling little brother. The crimes had to be
perfect
: meticulous, yet random; savage, yet un-motivated. The criminal must be the most infamous, yet he must never have a face. Jack the Ripper is an illusion, a haunting; he is the embodiment of fear in its purest of terms. He could have been
anyone!
You have seen the reports in the press: he has a different appearance, a different background, a different nationality every week! If I could persuade my
fabulous
brother that this man, the most infamous criminal of all, was also the most dangerous; in Professor Moriarty, I knew it would only be a matter of time before Sherlock Holmes would single-handedly destroy the greatest criminal empire that we have ever seen. No one else could perform this task, Dr Watson; the authorities would barely entertain the notion that Moriarty was even a criminal, let alone the single biggest threat this empire has ever faced! He was an invisible disease: one which could not be felt or detected until the seeds of decay had grown and devoured their host, leaving nothing but a ravaged, empty carcass. Only Sherlock and I were aware of this most dangerous of threats. What was I to do at such an impasse? We could not defeat Moriarty, for he left no evidence. We needed the chain, Dr Watson, a decisive link between crime and creator! So I created a diversion. I set out upon weekends as my schedule was often busy. Whitechapel offered the most suitable destination, as it was practically swimming with the kind of deprivation I was after. I auditioned my victims from afar and awaited the perfect opportunity before casting my leading lady. I struck from behind, covered their mouths and slit their throats. I ensured each victim followed a certain pattern, but always allowed for greater violence upon my next outing. It was all rather too easy to throw the authorities off the right scent: they even refused to believe the involvement of an educated man, despite all the evidence to the contrary. How fabulously predictable our force is!

“There were two men in London whose attention I knew I had gained: Sherlock Holmes and Professor James Moriarty. It may surprise you to learn, Sherlock, that the Professor was quite disturbed by the appearance of this demon in his city. Moriarty believed he had the perfect criminal empire and that he controlled all those within it. I heard it drove him quite mad to hear of this Jack the Ripper, for he knew better than most that this was no ordinary criminal. Moriarty had sparked the slow burning inferno, and was quite content to observe as the flames danced around and caressed our society before engulfing it in a blaze of decadence and despair. He did not expect that anything could arise from such ashes, let alone a criminal mind sufficiently devious to challenge him for supremacy of the underworld. Jack the Ripper was perhaps more of an obsession for Moriarty than he was for you, Sherlock. Do not preach false idols; we both know you welcomed the Ripper with open arms. It was Jack the Ripper who provided the crucial distraction and allowed you to grasp your first tangible link. Without him, you would never have defeated Professor Moriarty. So you see, Dr Watson, judge me if you will, curse me, or perhaps from the look in your eye, shoot me; but ask yourself this, what does it matter if a few prostitutes were mutilated if it meant the long-term security of this country? I did what I did based upon pure reason.”

“Reason?” I spat. “You are nothing more than a madman with a blade! You may believe that you acted according to logic, Mycroft, but I assure you, you have allowed your mind to become unhinged; you are nothing more than a savage. The greatest men do not cater to thoughts of sedition and murder; you have reduced yourself to nothing more than a disgrace.”