Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder (14 page)

“Why would he do that?”

“It is curious, Watson.”

“His pocket,” said Brett.

“Pardon?” I asked.

“White's pocket, there are photographs. Get them.”

Holmes found them and looked upon them with disgust. I approached and saw the reason for his revulsion. Grotesque images of filth.

“I've seen images like these before,” said Holmes.

“Where?” I demanded, scandalised.

He reached into his inner coat pocket and withdrew a photograph. I took it into my hand. It was an image of Mr Daniels and Mrs Goodtree in the midst of an explicit sexual encounter with several young Jewish women.

“I found this the day I searched Daniels' office. It was in his safe. Its connection remained unknown until now. But clearly Daniels didn't believe it was any connection to the Goblin Man, otherwise he would have said.”

“You think he would have divulged something like this?”

“Most probably.” Holmes put the photographs into his pocket.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “The woman, do you remember? The one we saw outside Daniels' house. He said she was nobody.”

“Yes, it would appear to be this Osgen woman. She must have been delivering those papers. Daniels was losing his company to her, and she was blackmailing him with these images.”

Perspiring and panting, Reid stood in the doorway. He walked over and knelt down by his fallen friend and colleague. He clenched his fist and struck the floor. Holmes, though rarely one for sentiment, reached over and put his on Reid's shoulder.

“He was a good man, a smart man. A bit misguided but good.” Reid wiped his face and stood up. “Still, we have work to do.”

Holmes nodded, then showed the pictures from White's pocket, then the picture of Daniels and Mrs Goodtree.

“It's likely others were being blackmailed by this woman. Which means it would be important to get a list of the clientele and smoke out the rest of the rats here,” said Holmes.

“I agree,” nodded Reid.

“Reid. Remind me, what was the name of Lamech's wife?” Holmes asked.

“Ruth, why?”

“Curious.”

We turned when we heard the rustling in the corner. The maid had tried to slip out the door.

“Girl, come here,” Reid ordered. The maid stopped and returned upon command, her face streamed with makeup. “Whose house are we in?”

“It's the missus' house,” she responded.

“Is that why you were not allowed to go beyond the rooms in the passage?”

“I suppose so. Well, we weren't given any real explanation for it. But it was known where the tunnel led,” she whispered.

“You will have to come with us.”

“I don't want to go to jail!” She began to shake and cry.

“If you help us, we can help you,” Reid assured her.

***

The local authorities were called in along with Lestrade to clear out the liberal club. We saw that Brett was looked after and received medical attention for his wounds. His leg was badly injured, and he would need to keep off it for some time. White's body was removed, as was Miss Osgen's. The young maid proved useful in giving us important information about the clientele, which aided in making many high profile arrests over the next week as the club was washed out. Holmes kept himself busy, but spoke little over those few days as to his whereabouts.

***

“We are still no closer to Jackson!” exclaimed Reid, as he stood in the window of 221B Baker Street. “I don't know why you called me here to look down deadends!” He turned towards Holmes and myself, who were sitting in our usual places. The glaring sunlight silhouetted the Inspector's back.

Holmes, who was surrounded by a hoard of papers, reached for his pipe and Persian slipper in which he stored his tobacco. Slowly he began packing the bowl of his cherrywood pipe.

“Not all is as dark as you believe,” said Holmes igniting his pipe and taking a few puffs before rising. He reached into the pocket of his mouse-coloured dressing gown and withdrew a card, handing it to Reid.

“What's this?”

“A card, a doctor's card.” There was a buzz at the door. “Aha! Good, he's right on time.” Reid looked to me for an explanation, but I could offer none.

The door swung open, and the large figure of Investigator Hewitt stood before us. “After racing here from Victoria those seventeen steps were something of a final trek up the mountain's peak,” he said.

“Pray, take a seat and tell us what you know,” said Holmes.

“First, where is Brett?” he asked.

“Mr Brett,” Reid began, “was injured. He's alive, but his leg was badly wounded by a knife. He won't return to us for some time.”

Hewitt's face dropped. “What happened?” he pressed.

We informed Hewitt of all that had happened at the Liberal Club and of the arrests that had occurred because of our investigation. He was disgusted with the inner workings of the club, and further revolted by the Daniels and Goodtree's darker secrets. Lastly Holmes mentioned the will of Daniels and the new owner.

“Now, Holmes,” said I. “You and Mr Hewitt have kept us in the dark with this mysterious trip to the continent.”

“I will reveal all,” said Hewitt. “It is connected with that card you hold, Mr Reid.” Reid glanced at it again. “Doctor Jean-Christopher Jonqueres, a Paris based physician, is at the forefront of medical science. He is widely known for skin grafts, helping disfigured individuals reconstruct their appearance to look more natural. His first patient was a young African boy who had been bitten by a poisonous spider and lost a large chunk of his face. Doctor Jonqueres performed a series of grafts to cover the wound, returning the boy's face almost back to normal. As the science has progressed, the questions, both in the realms of possibility and of morality, of changing one's face to look radically different have been raised.”

“Might someone change their appearance to hide their identity?” Reid questioned.

“Precisely,” said Holmes.

“To what end?” I asked.

“Any,” Hewitt returned. “An attempt to start a new life, running from something, anything - it may even come to a point where natural beauty will be replaced with falsities. The possibilities could be endless.”

“Why did you look this man up?” Reid asked.

“Mr Holmes was fortunate to pick up something that I missed, that card. It was in Jackson's lodgings. We were told he took an unexpected trip to the continent, but then his body mysteriously turned up on the Thames bank. Now, with this false body of his in place, the rumour that he was off to the continent, in correlation with the card we now possess, is quite suggestive.”

“It's circumstantial,” I protested.

“Or is it?” Holmes returned. “It's the little things that count. The mud from the Goblin's shoe led us to Daniels' factory which led us to Jackson.”

“Well,” Hewitt continued, “Holmes showed me the card at Scotland Yard. One of us needed to speak with this doctor. I gathered what I could and made my way to Paris. I would say for all the legwork I did I don't feel much lighter; the cheese and wine was much too tempting. Anyway, I did my own investigation to find Doctor Jonqueres. He was out of town, staying in his country home some miles outside of Paris. I continued my journey to find him. I would hardly call his lodging a country home; a mansion would have been a more apt description. It rose three stories high, made out of solid grey limestone, with large arched windows, wide doors, and towering peaks. I pounded on the door and was greeted by a beautiful French maid. She was a lovely creature. She showed me into a room where I waited for the good doctor. When he arrived, he greeted me warmly.

“‘Hello, Monsieur Hewitt,' said he. ‘It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.'

“‘As it is for me as well,' I returned.

“‘What is it that I can do for you?' he asked.

I proceeded to tell him of our investigation and our hunt for the man, Jackson, whom we believed might have come and had surgery performed on him some time ago. The doctor sat bewildered for some time. “‘How is it so that I have been pulled into this English drama?' he inquired, smiling. Though, realising the seriousness of the situation, he quickly sobered. ‘No, no - forgive my jest. I take photographs of all my patients, before and after. I do not remember a man by the name Jackson, but the description reminds me of a man named Edward Wilder. An English businessman who came to see me some months back. We had corresponded for a while regarding some reconstruction surgery. I found him most odd, but he was eager to undergo the experiment. When he arrived, he had a terrible gash on his face, no more than a day or two old. This made the surgery slightly more difficult, but he did not want to wait. So I performed the surgery. When it was completed, he looked like a new man. However, there was a scar from the gash on his face. He was not bothered, though.'

“‘Can I see the pictures of him?' I asked the physician.

“‘But of course, Monsieur Hewitt,' he exclaimed, and jumped from his seat. ‘Now I must tell you the truth. Mr Wilder did not want any photographs before or after, but I could not resist capturing my work while he was still unconscious.'

He went into a drawer, and withdrew a couple of photographs. Hewitt reached into his pocket and laid the photographs on the table. We saw the face, before and after, of Phillias Jackson. His brow had been changed, his lips, ears, his nose too. It was a confusing set of images to gaze upon as, for a moment, the faces looked similar yet oddly different.

“I suspect he will change his hair colour as well,” said Reid.

“Well, as it happens,” said Holmes, “Daniels' lawyer came to see Lestrade. His company is being passed over to another person.” Holmes picked up a newspaper and laid it down onto the photographs. He pointed to a small article. “A Mr Edward Wilder will be hosting a ball in celebration of his new shipping business and revealing some kind of fore-fronted technology that will aid Britain as threats and rumours of wars continue to heighten.”

“Jackson is Wilder,” said I. “He must have been working with Osgen in order to blackmail Goodtree and Daniels. But what I do not understand is the Goblin Mystery now. We thought it was Jackson.”

“It was not Jackson himself, but it was his associate,” confirmed Holmes.

“Who is this person?” Reid asked.

“Ruth Lamech,” confirmed Holmes.

“But she was... how is that possible?” Reid asked.

“On the blueprints at the Liberal Club were the initials R.L., and the writing on the prints was distinctly feminine. While Lestrade and the rest were looking into the clientele of the Liberal Club, I decided to try and find Reid's missing Jews. It was confirmed to me by a trustworthy source, a connection my brother Mycroft forbids me from disclosing, that Ruth was a mechanical genius and was the one responsible for designing the explosives used by Lamech and the anarchists. Second, the Goblin man outfit we found in Jackson's shed, I discovered two markers; some strands of long dark hair inside the mask and a fingerprint. I was able to match her print to one in Lamech's former East End lodgings. She is our Goblin and She, I believe, enhanced her explosives design for Jackson to use on Goodtree, but could not do so until he ordered in the equipment: the powders from Burk and Lynn.”

“So we have it then!” exclaimed Reid. “Jackson used these players to acquire Daniels and Goodtree's business. Though Mrs Goodtree thought he was the unlucky but brilliant businessman, it was Ruth who aided him.”

“Haven't you realised how the poison got into Lamech on the same day Jackson was seen with him at the public house?” Holmes asked.

Reid's eyes lit up. “It was her. She got the poison into his food? She betrayed her husband with Jackson!”

“With the promise of a new and better future as a wealthy businesswoman,” said Hewitt.

“Rather than the wife of an anarchist living in a slum,” said I.

Holmes sighed. “So Ruth was posing as the Goblin while Jackson was away. Osgen and Ruth would have put things in place while he reconstructed his face, but something even more concerning is this.” Holmes laid out the blueprints with R.L. initialled on them. “Do you know what this might be? Take a look at the guests due to attend the event tomorrow.” We looked at the paper and saw that Lord Myers was to attend. He had, in the past, been the target of many anarchist attacks. “The scarlet thread of murder, which has run through this case, has led to this: Jackson's assuming a new identity and running the Daniels and Goodtree business with Ruth Lamech being his engineer, there is only one more personal matter to see too, Lord Myers. He is to be at the demonstration but he is not meant to leave alive. Jackson has what he wanted now Ruth wants Myers death. All it takes is one mistake in a demonstration, a sudden bit of chaos, and he could be killed. Now we set the final trap for our little mouse.”

Chapter 22

Doctor Watson

The Final Trap

Autumn 1890

Edward Wilder's grand event was to be hosted at the Royal Geographical Society opposite Hyde Park. It was by invitation only, but Holmes and Hewitt managed to acquire a set. The previous night we had formulated a plan. Jackson, or now Wilder, would be easy to catch, but we needed his final accomplice. If Holmes's information was right, we needed Ruth. Holmes explained that the blueprint designs were for something quite grand and terrible. As Hewitt looked over the information, he explained that the Whitechapel explosion was but a demonstration on a smaller scale. The design had been enlarged and perfected, which would explain the whereabouts of all the powders purchased from Burke and Lynn. Though Reid's concerns were greater, he speculated that the explosive might be laced with the fire flower poison as well, meaning that anyone not killed by the blast might still be effected by deadly toxins. Without capturing Ruth, White's death and Brett's injuries would never be fully avenged.