The Last Sherlock Holmes Story (3 page)

Once again he passed me the book, indicating with a bony finger one of the pasted cuttings.

‘Such was the fate of the killer’s third victim, Chapman,’ Holmes commented. ‘Do you know this Philips, by the way?’

‘But why, Holmes? In God’s name why?’

‘My dear fellow! The medical world is a comparatively small one, after all. I thought perhaps –’

‘No, no! The murders! This dreadful senseless mutilation! Why should anyone wish to do such a thing? What could it possibly profit them?’

Holmes looked up at me from the pages of his book.

‘You put the matter in a nutshell, Watson. In themselves, after all, the murders are quite insignificant. Such females are killed in one way or another every week in that district, and only the registrar takes any notice. Nothing could be less inspiring to the analytical observer. But when the killer tarries by the lifeless body of his victim, deliberately risking capture in order to inflict the most fiendish mutilations on the insensible flesh, then the affair transcends its sordid content and aspires to the realm of the unique and the inspirational!’

I could hardly be expected to share Holmes’s sentiments concerning these monstrous atrocities, but I knew
my friend well enough not to be shocked by his callous tone. No amount of weeping or gnashing of teeth was going to bring the maniac responsible to justice. If he could be stopped, Holmes was the man to do it. But could even he bring light into such utter darkness?

‘No one knows your powers better than I, Holmes, but I confess I cannot see how you hope to bring them to bear in this case. Here is no closed circle of suspects to be considered one by one, no hidden motive to betray the guilty party. This monster strikes at random, materialising out of the night to do his horrible work, and then vanishing as if by magic! Why, almost any man in London might have done the murders! Your suspects must be counted in millions!’

‘Come, it’s hardly as bad as that. Of those millions, many will turn out to have an alibi for at least one of the nights in question. And most of the others can be ruled out as simply constitutionally incapable of any crimes as extraordinary as these. Besides, you err in stating that the killer leaves no clues. The case is rather the reverse. Why – where is it? Yes! – Thursday’s
Times
opined that “there is a perfect abundance of clues, provided they be followed up.” Not only that, but

No wonder poor Lestrade has decided to honour us with a visit!’

‘But what is this valuable clue to which they allude?’

‘Well, I cannot altogether agree as to its value,’ Holmes laughed. ‘It seems that the coroner, in his summing-up, noted the absence of various organs from the corpse, and
suggested that the motive for the killings might after all be simple financial gain. In other words –’

I gasped.

‘Burke and Hare!’
‡

‘Precisely. Resurrectionism resurrected. It is an ingenious theory, and Baxter did well to mention it. But I doubt if the police will meet with much success if they take it literally – and how else, after all, do they ever take anything? But unless I am much mistaken, here comes Lestrade to put their case in person. Are you aware that it is possible to distinguish thirty-three different trades and professions by the sound of their footsteps? I was thinking at one time of publishing a small monograph on the subject. Ah come in, Inspector! The cane chair is vacant. I gather you have finally come to seek my assistance in putting an end to these Whitechapel murders.’

Lestrade looked pained.

‘I don’t know where you got that idea, Mr Holmes. The fact is I just happened to be passing this way, and knowing how you interest yourself in these matters I thought to myself –’

‘Quite so. Most kind, I’m sure. But do tell us how your investigation is proceeding. No doubt by now an arrest is imminent – if not indeed two or three.’

‘Oh, I can’t divulge that information. You can hardly expect that, Mr Holmes! This is only a private call, you know.’

‘Come, come!’ cried Holmes cordially. ‘No need to be bashful. Don’t spare my feelings! It is a blow, I admit, to learn that you are doing so well without me, but I shall get over it. Who is the guilty party? We are all agog to know.’

Lestrade scratched his mutton-chops with a well-bitten fingernail.

‘I don’t say we can make a case against any one person as yet. But we have our suspicions, and as soon as they are confirmed we shall not hesitate to move.’

‘Of course! Very wise! After that fiasco with the Pizer fellow you will naturally want to tread warily. I understand that he is instituting legal action. It was a Sergeant Thicke who made the arrest, was it not? Strange how some names lodge in the memory.’

‘What is this, Holmes?’ I demanded. ‘Who is Pizer?’

Holmes turned to Lestrade, and indicated with a theatrical gesture that the floor was his. The official coughed and shuffled uneasily.

‘John Pizer, also known as “Leather Apron”, was our first suspect in the Chapman killing. A leather apron was found beside the body. This alerted our suspicions. We then learned that the woman Nicholls had been friendly with a man known by the same alias. Acting upon this information, a sergeant of H division proceeded to premises in Mulberry Street, where he effected the arrest of –’

‘Unfortunately,’ Holmes cut in, ‘the fellow in question turned out to have an unbreakable alibi for the nights in question, and was duly released the next day.’

‘It’s easy to be wise after the event,’ replied Lestrade with a touch of bitterness.

‘True. But I should have thought it was at least obvious that the man we are looking for is not some cringing shoemaker who, hearing that he is suspected, locks himself up in his room in terror of the pogrom. However, let that be. I have no wish to dwell on your failures, my dear Inspector. Life is too short. What is the present state of your enquiries? Have you been following up Coroner Baxter’s interesting suggestions?’

Lestrade sneered.

‘Between you and me, Mr Holmes, the coroner would
do better to stick to his job, and leave the investigation to those who are properly qualified for it.’

‘I could not agree more. But no doubt he was aware that I had not been invited to participate.’

For a moment the two detectives, official and unofficial, stared at one another. Then Lestrade blinked and made a smile.

‘Oh you are a wag, sir. Highly humorous. Good ’un. Ha.’

‘You are too kind. But I see I am in danger of monopolising the conversation. Your wire, I believe, mentioned fresh news.’

A sly look appeared on Lestrade’s face.

‘What would you say if I was to tell you that I have in my pocket a letter which we believe to be from the murderer?’

If the Scotland Yarder had hoped to produce an effect, he was rewarded with a stunned silence. Holmes leant forward, now totally serious and alert.

‘I would say that I would very much like to see that letter.’

Lestrade reached into his coat, producing with a flourish an envelope which he passed to Holmes. My friend drew from it a sheet of paper. He read it through with the utmost concentration, and then passed it on to me. It was a letter written in a good hand, with red ink. It ran this way:

Dont mind me giving the trade name

A few lines had been added to the letter crosswise, as a postscript.

Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now
ha ha

I returned this extraordinary document to Holmes, who was studying the envelope intently through his magnifying glass.

‘Nothing to be learned from the paper,’ he murmured. ‘The letter is dated the 25th, yet the postmark gives the 27th. Why did he not post it sooner? Hm! “Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight.” By Jove! He was worried lest the press lack the necessary patience! You realise what this means, of course?’

Lestrade and I gazed mutely at Holmes, who rapped the letter with his fingertips.

‘Why, he is as good as telling you that he will attempt another murder within the next few nights!’

‘Oh, is that all?’ Lestrade laughed. ‘For a moment I thought you had spotted something. I can read as well as you, Mr Holmes, but why should we believe what he says? It is most likely all a trick.’

Holmes shook his head impatiently.

‘Never mind what he says. Observe what he does! If he merely wished to confuse us, he would have posted the letter as soon as it was written, on Tuesday. Why should he delay? But instead he deliberately keeps the letter back until Thursday, and then urges the press not to make it public until he “gets to work again”. That must mean that he knows beyond all doubt that another killing
will
take place, and within a few days. Then his letter can be published with the maximum effect. This man is waging a campaign of terror, and he understands very well that nothing is so necessary as a fine sense of timing.’

‘Come, Holmes!’ I protested. ‘You are surely overlooking the fact that the writer of this letter is a crude and simple fellow. You are making him out a man of intelligence and sophistication, when he is all too evidently a vulgar and illiterate ruffian.’

‘You speak more wisely than you know, Watson. “All too evidently”, indeed! Now I dare say I know more vulgar and illiterate ruffians than you, and I can assure you that none of them would perpetrate such a concoction as this. On the contrary, it is a characteristic of that type that, since writing is unnatural to them, they do it unnaturally. Their style is invariably cramped, their diction arch and stiff. But our correspondent who signs himself Jack the Ripper is quite a different sort. He uses his cant and his solecisms to achieve an effect, as though he were writing advertisements for the latest brand of liver pills. To be sure, he wishes the public to picture him as a violent
low-class
tough, which merely strengthens my conviction that he is in fact a gentleman; well spoken, well dressed, and quite probably eminently respected by a wide circle of acquaintances.’

Lestrade eyed me silently, and winked. It was only with difficulty that I refrained from returning the gesture. Holmes’s description was so totally contrary to every
current opinion – as well as to ordinary common sense – that I could not help wondering if he were indulging himself in a joke at our expense. But his features betrayed no hint of irony. He seemed, indeed, more than usually serious.

‘Evidence!’ he cried. ‘That’s what I need – evidence! Not the evidence he chooses to give out in his letter, nor what is left after a horde of the morbidly curious have trampled over the scene of the crime at sixpence a head. No, if our man is successful in carrying out his threat, I must be on the spot.’

He turned to Lestrade.

‘What preventive measures are you contemplating?’

‘Measures? Why, every spare man on the force has been drafted into Whitechapel! My only worry is that the killer will see that we’ve made the district too hot to hold him, and go somewhere else. If he was to try his luck in Bethnal Green or Stepney he might go many a mile without seeing a policeman.

‘Pshaw! Your fears are quite groundless, Lestrade. All the murderer’s tactics so far have been expressly designed to create a confrontation between himself and the authorities – a confrontation he intends to win. Why else would he alert you to his intentions? To go elsewhere now would be tantamount to admitting defeat. Besides, it is obvious from his letter that he shares the low opinion of the force that is so sadly prevalent these days.’

‘He will find a very warm welcome awaiting him if he does come back, I can promise you that,’ Lestrade averred stoutly. ‘Quite apart from our own patrols, and those of the vigilante groups, we have a little surprise up our sleeves. If the killer isn’t very careful, he may well find that he has picked one of my constables to try and assault!’

‘One of your constables?’

‘That’s what I said, Mr Holmes. This is highly confidential, of course, but you may be interested to learn that
each night a body of our finest men patrol the streets of Whitechapel in female attire as decoys to trap this maniac.’

A moment of strained silence followed this revelation, and then Holmes and I burst simultaneously into uncontrollable laughter. Lestrade coloured deeply.