The Last Sherlock Holmes Story (4 page)

‘I don’t see anything funny!’ he snapped. ‘When it is a question of protecting the public and of apprehending criminals, I am proud to say that there are no lengths to which the Metropolitan Police are not prepared to go.’

‘My dear fellow, you must excuse us,’ cried Holmes. ‘I feel sure I speak for Dr Watson in saying that I have nothing but the highest regard for the courage and devotion of your colleagues. It is just, you know, that the idea of our brawny and hirsute bobbies got up in linsey skirts and velvet bonnets takes a little getting used to.’

Lestrade’s face was a picture of injured righteousness.

‘It seems there’s no pleasing you, Mr Holmes. You never tire of criticising us for doing things by the book, but as soon as we try something out of the ordinary you laugh in our faces. Well, I have more pressing business than to sit here joking with you two gentlemen. If I had known you weren’t interested in working with us on this case, I wouldn’t have troubled you.’

He got to his feet. Holmes also rose.

‘You are quite mistaken if you think I am uninterested in the case, Inspector,’ he said soothingly. ‘On the contrary, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be associated with your investigation. As I have said, I think it most likely that the murderer will attempt to strike within the next few nights. It is therefore imperative that our plans should be laid. If it is convenient, I propose we meet this afternoon at the Yard to discuss our strategy.’

Suitably mollified by this overture, Lestrade left in much better humour. Holmes saw him out, returning to the room with an expression of great glee.

‘What a tonic our good Lestrade is, to be sure!’ he cried. ‘Believe me, Watson, if you ever feel that you are growing old and stupid, the best cure I know is the company of one of Her Majesty’s detectives. They really should be hired out by the hour so that doctors could prescribe the remedy.’

‘Surely you are a little harsh,’ I objected. ‘The authorities seem to me to have done everything that can be expected.’

‘Exactly, my dear fellow! That’s what I find so amusing. They do just what one expects, like so many clockwork toys. I must admit, though, that this latest stroke of Lestrade’s is something I had not foreseen. Policemen in petticoats! I certainly hope they have their wits about them, or before long the illustrated papers may be proclaiming the discovery of the horribly mutilated body of a policeman dressed in whore’s rags in a Spitalfields alley. Imagine that, Watson!’

I could not but deplore this banter, and I sought to turn the conversation to more seemly courses.

‘Come now, Holmes! You rally the authorities freely enough, but what is your own solution? You refuse to give even a hint of daylight, yet you mock others for blundering in the dark. That’s hardly sporting, you know.’

‘Well said, old friend! No doubt I have been liberal with my jibes, and it is true I have no more idea of the murderer’s identity than Lestrade does. But I do at least have a clear idea of what kind of man he is.’

‘Here is a beast, a savage. That much is plain enough.’

Holmes glanced at me keenly.

‘I believe that you have a theory, Doctor. Out with it, then! It is a free-for-all at this stage.’

‘All right, then. I believe that the murderer of these poor women is some brutal savage like Tonga.
§
I note that
the killings have all occurred close to the docks. Suppose that this native is employed as a deckhand on some foreign ship. Fresh from his barbarous homeland, he is set loose in London. Crazed with drink, he roams the streets by night. Then, chancing upon some penniless unfortunate huddled in a doorway, he kills her in his savage frenzy. He then slips back on board his ship, which sails at first light. His tracks are thus effectively covered, and when the vessel returns a few weeks later he is free to indulge in another bloodbath.’

Holmes applauded enthusiastically. ‘Capital, Doctor! Really first rate! If I were in the market for a theory, I would sooner take yours than half a dozen others I have heard. In fact there is still more evidence you might adduce in its favour. The arrangement of the objects around Chapman’s body, for instance, might be explained as a heathen rite.’

‘I know nothing of that.’

‘The killer took the rings from her fingers and laid them out carefully at her feet, together with a few coins. By her head he placed part of an envelope, and you have heard Dr Philips’s evidence about the arrangement of the intestines on her right shoulder. Does that not suggest some form of ritual sacrifice?’

I could scarcely believe my ears. With each new detail the case seemed to grow darker and more unfathomable.

‘It’s devilish,’ I cried.

‘It has certainly been made to appear so. Incidentally, one of the inmates of the boarding-house Chapman frequented identified the envelope as being the property of the deceased. She had seen her with it earlier that night, but at that time it lacked the mark it bore later, when it was found by Chapman’s head.’

‘What mark was that?’

‘The letter “M”. A capital “M”. That would seem to put paid to your ignoble savage, Watson.’

’Perhaps one of his fellow-seamen had taught him a few letters,’ I suggested feebly. ‘Or perhaps –’

My voice died away. Holmes nodded.

‘Aye, “perhaps”. There you have the key to this whole affair. “Perhaps.” Have you ever heard of Occam’s Razor?’

‘What?’ I was rather startled by this sudden change of tack. ‘I don’t believe I have. Is it one of the new safety models?’

‘Hardly. It has been with us for over five hundred years. It is a philosophical axiom. In its original form it runs:
Entia non sunt multiplicanda
.’

’I see.’

‘In other words, entities should not be unnecessarily multiplied. Now then, Doctor! How many theories are necessary to solve a problem?’

I sat up straight and endeavoured to collect my thoughts.

‘How many are necessary? Well, just one. As long as it’s the correct one, of course.’

‘Precisely! But when we come to look into these
White-chapel
murders, what do we find? Handfuls of theories! Theories by the score! One penny plain and tuppence coloured! Every man you meet has his own and every hour brings with it a fresh one. So let us try all these prolific hypotheses upon old William of Occam’s cutting edge. Are they necessary to explain the facts? They are not. Do they bring us any nearer to apprehending the criminal? They do not. Do they enable us to predict what he is likely to do in the future? No. Then what use are they? The answer, my dear Watson, is that they are of no use whatsoever to us, but of very great value to the murderer.’

As Holmes expounded his argument, his tone grew more heated and his gestures correspondingly more intense. At length he leapt up from his chair and began to pace the floor.

‘I said that I had a clear idea of the kind of man he is, Watson. Perhaps now you begin to perceive the outlines. You must put all conventional notions out of your head. We are dealing with an artist of misdirection with an uncanny knack for manipulating the public mind. He knows that organ as well as any great musician knows his instrument, and he can make it play whatever medley of popular airs will best enshroud the augmented tones of his grim
leitmotif
. Is it any wonder then that Lestrade and company provoke my mirth? This Whitechapel killer is as far beyond their ken as Lassus’s polyphony is beyond the patrons of the Savoy Theatre. In fact, Watson – and I say this without the slightest immodesty – I very much doubt whether there is any man in London besides myself who is capable of cutting through this cunning devil’s webs of deception, to reveal the unholy genius at the heart of it all. He is truly a formidable opponent! Finally I have an adversary wholly worthy of my powers! To destroy him will set a fitting crown upon my life’s work. And if I fail – But no! I must not fail. There can be no question of that! The consequences would be unthinkable.’

Never had I seen Holmes display such agitation as in uttering these last words. It was as if he found himself doubting his own powers for the first time. In another moment he was master of himself again, and all purposeful energy, but that single glimpse of the inner man disturbed me far more than all the dreadful news I had heard that morning.

Holmes spent the afternoon at Scotland Yard, returning for dinner in a mood of taciturn introspection. After the meal, which we ate in silence, he retired to the
acid-stained
table in the corner and busied himself with his retorts and test-tubes. I took myself out for a walk, and went early to bed. The next morning our front room reeked of some malodorous compound which Holmes
had brewed up in what had evidently been a late sitting. Of Holmes himself there was no sign until almost midday, when he emerged from his room dressed as the shabbiest tatterdemalion imaginable, and announced coolly that he would spend the next three days in Whitechapel.

‘You mean to leave me behind then?’ I cried in dismay.

‘No, no. But you cannot assist me at this juncture. Fear not, though, you shall miss none of the sport.’

‘Might I not at least tag along?’

‘Tut, Watson! It wouldn’t do, old fellow. I shall spend my time mingling with the people of the district. As you see, I intend to pass as one of themselves. Now I think you would agree that your dramatic talents do not extend much beyond the occasional recitation of “The boy stood on the burning deck” at yuletide festivities, whereas I must come and go in houses which the police themselves will not enter. If the folk there suspected for an instant that I was a “toff” I should be in great danger of leaving the premises horizontally.’

‘That’s all very well, Holmes, but you cannot expect me to sit idly by while you battle this fiend alone!’

‘By no means. On the contrary, if things turn out as I expect I shall be only too glad of your support. As you know, I maintain a number of small refuges in various parts of London, and one of these is situated quite conveniently close to the scene of these crimes. I intend to put up there. It is too small to accommodate us both – a mere glory-hole – but Lestrade is to call for me if a murder is discovered, and I shall at once dispatch a cab to bring you to the spot.’

They also serve, the poem says, who only stand and wait. Perhaps their service is in fact the more arduous. Certainly it seemed so that evening as I sat alone in Baker Street, gazing into the fire and wondering what Holmes
was about and what hazards he was facing and what the outcome would be. At eleven o’clock I lit my candle and went upstairs. I lay down fully clothed on my bed, and after a time sleep claimed me.

At half past two a rapping at my bedroom door awoke me from a fitful slumber. I was grateful for the interruption, for I had been visited by a fantastic and terrible dream in which I seemed to be following a woman down a dreary street, a knife in my hand. From such unwholesome phantoms even the rudest awakening comes as a welcome relief. At the door I discovered Mrs Hudson’s Billy, clad in a woollen wrap and shaking with cold and excitement.

‘There’s a cab for you down below, sir,’ said the youth. ‘Mr Holmes ‘as sent for you, seein’ as which there’s bin another ’orrible murder!’

The situation had proved too much for Billy’s grammar, but his meaning could not have been clearer. I fetched my hat and coat and hurried down. But it soon seemed that I had shaken off my dreams only to enter a world equally spectral and oppressive. The hansom bucked and swayed through deserted streets. A chill wind had laid waste the city. How many of all the millions who toil daily in London have ever seen its other face? It is an eerie reflection of that brash and bustling metropolis. All is the same, and yet not the same. No doubt it sounds fanciful, but seen from that madly dashing cab the city bore the aspect of a skull. The very streets seemed terrible, and a fit arena for these most terrible crimes.

The cabbie had said only that the murder was in Aldgate. ‘They wouldn’t let me near the body. They said it was no fit sight.’ We sped down Holborn and
Cheap-side
, past the Bank, and into Leadenhall Street. Here at last the driver checked our furious progress, as we turned off down a narrow lane to the left. Some distance along we turned again, and drew up. The cabbie jumped down. ‘You’re here,’ he said bluntly.

A cut opposite debouched into a small square where a group of persons were gathered together under a lamp. As I approached, a policeman emerged from the shadows and asked me my business. I explained that I was an associate of Mr Sherlock Holmes, upon which I was conducted to the group under the lamp and introduced to an Inspector of the City Police. This official denied all knowledge of Holmes’s whereabouts, but on learning that I was a doctor he in turn introduced me to the police surgeon, a Dr Brown, who was waiting for arrangements to be made to remove the corpse to the mortuary. It was he who invited me to view the remains.

‘I have no idea how extensive your practice has been, Dr Watson,’ he remarked, ‘but I shall be very surprised if you have seen anything like this before.’

He led me across the square to a dark corner. On the flagstones lay a shapeless mass. The surgeon shone his
bull’s-eye
on it, and bent to turn back the sheet of dirty canvas that covered the thing. It was a dead woman. Her throat had been slashed in the most vicious manner, and the whole face was brutally disfigured. Pieces of bloody tissue were heaped about the neck. Then Dr Brown pulled the canvas all the way back, exposing the lower body to view.

For a moment I was in danger of disgracing myself before a fellow medico. And yet that corpse presented nothing new to eyes that had witnessed countless dissections. It was not the injuries themselves that were so shocking – the gaping abdomen, the entrails torn asunder, the pools of drying blood – but rather the terrible violence with which they had been inflicted. Nothing that was said at the inquest could begin to suggest the impression that was immediately burned upon the mind of everyone who saw that poor woman’s body. The knife had been jabbed with tremendous force into the groin and then dragged upwards through the body until it was stopped by the breast-bone. The signature on the letter
Lestrade had shown us leapt instantly to mind in all its hideous aptness – the woman had been literally ripped open. All those present that morning were either doctors or policemen, and by profession inured to grisly scenes, and yet they all conspicuously avoided the corner where the body lay, and huddled together on the other side of the square as if for protection. I knew that each man had felt as I had on gazing at that obscene spectacle, that some dark power had risen out of the swamps of history, some atavistic freak come to unleash horrors we had thought to meet only in old books and country tales, and with which we were helpless to deal.