Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (37 page)

“You still could, my good man,” I said. “Mary and I could arrange to introduce you to a few of the women she knows. You could make me a godfather as well.”

Holmes wrinkled his nose at the thought, shaking his head. “What woman would suit me, Watson? Who would put up with me? In all my life, there has only ever been one, and I sent her away.”

It was the most he’d ever spoken about Irene since she’d left. I was stunned. “It was you who sent her away? I always thought…”

He looked at me for a moment and his keen eyes pierced me. I realized that the tone of my voice had told the Great Detective more than I ever had about my own feelings for her. “Yes, Watson. Someone like her would not be content to stay huddled up in an upstairs apartment on Baker Street. But we have remained in contact. She has contributed greatly to the creation of the Apiary Society.”

“What the bloody deuce is this ‘Apiary Society,’ Holmes? You mention it but never explain what it is, or what it does. Are you creating a secret society of bee keepers, or something?”

“In due time, Watson,” he said, bouncing John on his knee. “Do you want to be a beekeeper, John?” he said to the boy while they both laughed. “Oh, yes, you do. A fine one you will make at that. A fine one, indeed.”

That was nearly twenty years ago.

Now, my life is filled with simple things and simple pleasures. I enjoy daily walks from our country cottage to the nearby market while watching the sun rise over wheat fields that stand taller than I. Along the way I take long, deep breaths of air that is blessedly free of the fumes and damp stench of London.

At the market, I tip my hat at the young woman who runs a fruit stand. “Good morning, Mrs. Carter. How are you?”

“Call me Abbie, Dr. Watson. Yeh needs not be so formal at this early hour,” she laughs. The basket she hands me is filled to the brim with fresh fruit. When no one else is around, she reverts to her natural cockney accent. Last summer, while speaking to her, I detected a trace of it and asked if she’d ever been a resident of London’s East End.

She eyed me suspiciously for a moment, then said, “Yes, back when I was a girl, sir. What makes you ask?”

I eventually told her a few things about my time in Whitechapel. Not nearly all of it. Just enough.

“Made sure yeh got the best of ‘a the bunch,” she says. Abbie then leans close to me and whispers, “Just promise to bring tha’ handsome son of yours around. I likes to look at him.”

“I promise to do so tomorrow,” I said, smiling. “Good day, Abbie.”

Twenty years, I muse. At times, things that happened then seem more in the present to me than anything that has happened recently. I find myself reminiscing in full detail about conversations or events long since passed, yet I am unable to recall the complete list of items Mary sent me out to pick up just an hour ago.

Not everyone has made it this far on the journey with me.

At times it seems as my dreams are more real to me than anything that happens when I am awake.

I am sitting in my old chair at 221 B Baker Street.

The fireplace is lit, but I am shivering with cold. Holmes sits across from me with a look of deep concern etched across his face. “You do not belong here, Watson,” he says. “Not yet.”

“I only came to tell you about John. He did the most remarkable thing yesterday,” I say quickly. It is always a good tactic to win his sympathy and get him to allow me just a few more moments there, at his side.

Holmes sighs, “All right. You know I cannot resist hearing about my godson.”

But then I cannot remember anything to tell him. “I lied, Holmes. The truth is, I only wanted to see you again.”

He smiles gently and shakes his head. “You cannot stay here, Watson, for I am dead.”

~ * * * ~

I remember how John wept at the funeral. Such a strong and virile lad, but there he stood, crying like a child. “Where is his violin? He should have his violin,” John said. “It should be in the casket with him.”

“No, it should not,” I said. “I was going to wait until the will was read to tell you, but he wanted you to have it. He always said you were twice the violinist he was.”

John lowered his head into Mary’s waiting arms. As she patted him on the back she pointed over my shoulder at the front door and said, “People are arriving, dear. You should attend to them.”

A group of men came in, the first of whom used a cane, and was somewhat bulkier than he’d been when I last saw him. However, the solemn face of Gerard Lestrade was unmistakable. I extended my hand and said, “Welcome to Sussex Downs, Detective Superintendent.”

“It’s just Gerard now, Watson. I retired several years ago. Thought I’d leave crime-fighting up to these young lads.” Lestrade cocked his head at the men following behind him.

“So what do you do to occupy yourself now?”

He shrugged and said, “My three grandchildren keep me busy. The littlest one says he wants to join Scotland Yard someday. Over my dead body, I say.”

I patted him on the shoulder and pointed him toward the casket. I shook hands with the next man and said, “I feel as if I should be saluting you. What exactly is your rank now, Fred?”

Lamb leaned around Wensley’s side and said, “He’s the bloody Chief of the entire Criminal Investigative Division. A posh big shot out in headquarters now. One of the most decorated members ever in the whole history of the damned force.”

I shook hands with Lamb. “And surely, you must be Chief Inspector by now?”

Wensley sighed and said, “I keep trying to steal him over to headquarters with me but he refuses to be promoted.”

“I am quite happy to be a sergeant, thank you very much,” Lamb said. “Nothing would suit me better than going out like Old Byfield did. Boots up on the desk, snoozing, and never wake up. It’s too much work to be an Inspector.”

Wensley shook his head. “That’s what he tells everyone, but the real truth is that he is the finest mentor of young constables we have. He won’t even let me take him out of Whitechapel.”

“And who is this gentleman?” I asked, indicating the man standing behind Lamb. He looked familiar to me but I could not place him. I racked my brain trying to remember where I’d seen him before, when suddenly it dawned on me that he was Police Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police. “My word, Sir Henry! It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Henry shook my hand pleasantly. “Hello, Doctor Watson, my cousin Lamb has told me much about you and your little adventures together. In a way, I have all of you to thank for my success. If not for that, I’d still be stuck with the Bengal Police.”

I looked at him in confusion for a moment. “I cannot agree with that, sir. Everyone knows you created an entire fingerprint classification system while working as nothing more than an Assistant Tax Collector in India. Your system has single-handedly changed the face of criminal investigations the world over.”

The three of them laughed as they followed Lestrade toward the casket to pay their respects. More people had begun filtering in and I was quickly greeting so many that I lost track of new arrivals. Even through the throng of people, the enormous shape of Mycroft Holmes stood out. My eyes widened when I saw that he had his arm around my son, and the two were huddled in the corner. “John!” I called out. “John! Come here at once. Your mother needs you.”

John looked at me from across the room and said something to Mycroft. The two of them shook hands and I heard John say, “I will.” Whatever he’d just agreed to made Mycroft smile broadly.

I pointed John toward Mary and turned to Mycroft. “He will what?” I said. “What have you been telling my son?”

Mycroft looked bored by my attempt to stare him down. “I was simply discussing the boy’s opportunities with him for when he graduates Oxford.”

“I will discuss them with him, thank you,” I said sharply. “Do not try to lure that boy into your world. I’m warning you. Stay away from my son.”

“Settle down, Watson. It was not for service to Her Majesty, but rather to my deceased brother. Sherlock told me there is much potential to be found in the boy as a member of the Apiary Society. He will need the right guidance though.”

“I have had just about enough of this mysterious ‘Apiary Society!’ Now my son is being recruited into it, and I still have no idea what they are or what they do! Holmes said I would find out someday but apparently I’ll have to wait until I am standing next to Saint Peter now to ask him.”

“He never told you because he did not want to tempt you into running off on another adventure with him, Watson. He knew that your heart lies in being with your family, but he was afraid you might feel compelled to take off with him out of loyalty. You are not only a member of the Apiary Society, you are one of its founders.”

“So what is it, Mycroft?”

He put his massive arm around me and hugged me tightly. “That is another story, my friend. Another story, for another time.”

We were near enough to the front door that I felt a chill wind blow across the back of my neck when it opened. I saw Mycroft’s wide face grow flush as he whispered, “My word, age has not diminished her at all, has it?”

I did not need to ask, because I already knew.

I turned toward the front door, and there she was. There was a thick scarf wrapped around her neck and tossed over her shoulder casually, as if it were nothing but a fashionable affectation. I knew its true intent was to conceal the jagged scar across her throat. The rest of her was draped in black. It was the kind of outfit a widow would wear to her husband’s funeral.

Irene looked older. Her once perfect features were now lined, but above the sagging skin of her cheeks, her eyes gleamed fiercely as she and I looked at one another.

I felt my heart pound, cursing the way my legs weakened at seeing her. “Hello, Irene,” I said.

“Hello, John.”

We were about to politely embrace one another when I saw a young woman coming through the door to stand behind Irene. This girl had dark, chestnut brown hair that curled down to her shoulders. Her face was exquisite, so reminiscent of Irene’s younger self that I gasped. And that is when I saw the girl’s pronouncedly bent nose.

She was taller than Irene, more slender. She had a keen, piercing stare that I had not seen since the man in the coffin had last closed his eyes, and I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Mary came up beside me and Irene said, “Hello, Mrs. Watson. It is lovely to finally meet you. I have heard so much about you.”

Mary cocked an eyebrow at her and said, “You have? And what is your name, dear?”

“Irene,” she said. “Irene Adler.”

Mary looked at her blankly. “Were you an acquaintance of Mr. Holmes and my husband’s?”

Irene did not speak for a moment. I cleared my throat and Irene finally said, “Yes. Yes, from back when they lived on Baker Street. They helped me once. This is my daughter Johanna.”

Mary smiled at the girl and said, “My goodness, what a ravishing beauty! I have someone to introduce to you.”

Irene and I watched Mary escort Johanna by the hand through the crowd to find my son. I felt her staring at me without needing to turn my head. “You never told your wife about me?” Irene said. “Not a single word?”

I turned on her and said, “Did you ever tell Holmes he had a daughter?”

Both of us turned to see Mary lead Johanna Adler up to John and introduce the two of them. He looked at her, and I watched the boy’s reaction as she lifted her hand and he lowered his lips to kiss it. Johanna smiled at him delicately when he looked back up at her. “Christ. The poor boy is doomed,” I whispered.

Irene laughed and very casually put her hand against my elbow. It was the lightest of touches but it scored me hotter than all hell’s flames. “Could you imagine the possibilities, John?” Irene said.

I looked at the young couple standing across the room and said, “I suppose stranger things have happened.”

THIRTY NINE

On December Thirty-First in 1888, a man’s body was fished from the dark waters of the River Thames. At the time, that was all anyone knew of the bloated, blackened corpse found snagged on vegetation around the pillars of the pier at Thorneycroft’s Warf.

The authorities estimated the man had been in the Thames for several weeks, but after being exposed that long to the pollution and river wildlife, the body barely resembled anything human. Several heavy stones were found inside the pockets of his clothing. It was assumed to be a suicide.

At the coroner’s inquest, a man named Will Druitt appeared before the board to identify the victim as his missing brother, Montague. The newspapers reported that Mr. Druitt swore out a statement that his brother was “sexually insane” and that “Monty” had been dismissed from his position at George Valentine’s School just prior for a “serious transgression.”

By the sheer timing of his death and his body’s proximity to Whitechapel, Montague Druitt was cast Montague Druitt headfirst into the Ripper mystery. Sport has been made of speculating why Druitt was fired from his job at the school. It normally ends with the implication that he was caught having an unhealthy relationship with one of the young male students.

Will Druitt produced a letter he claimed was written by Montague which read:
“Since Friday I felt that I was going to be like mother, and the best thing was for me to die.”

No attempts were ever made to authenticate the letter. No one saw a need to.

All that the world truly knows is that this quiet, lonely man named Montague Druitt lived until the age of thirty one. They know he died under mysterious circumstances. And they think he might have been Jack the Ripper. But Druitt is not alone in this. In fact, a whole cast of suspects has been paraded in front of a never-weary audience that regularly gathers to celebrate their elegant, romantic anti-hero.

Montague Druitt was not Jack the Ripper.

Many experts will tell you that. There are those who will authoritatively tell you why the killer was actually Lewis Carroll, or Walter Sickert, or William Gull. There are hundreds of experts with thousands of theories. Some even spice it up with a little Royal Family conspiracy, or suspicions implicating the Freemasons.