Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (48 page)

Maria smirks again, “’Uman nature, bein’ wot it is, ain’t goin’ t’ ’elp us, unless ’im upstairs gits off ’is backside an’ does summut ’bout it. An’ why should ’e fend fer us, anyway? We ain’t ’is brood. We’re the Devil’s own, Joseph Barnett.” Stepping closer to him, she murmurs suggestively, “Yer an’ me both.”

Comprehending the meaning of her innuendo, he stammers, “Me both. Mary ain’t cold in ’er grave an’ yer want t’ bed down wiv me?”

Maria rolls her eyes impatiently, “She’s been dead fer these last ten days. Doubt she rise from the grave now.”

Barnett vacillates, “Grave now. Ain’t got two ha’pennies t’ rub t’gether. ’Ave t’ find work.”

Maria smirks yet again, “Romford, yer daft bugger. The ’ole town’s been flooded. Plenty o’ work down there, cleanin’ up the mess. Take at least six months, they say.”

Barnett perks up, “They say. I’ll git work there?”

Maria sighs smilingly, “Course yer will. An’ me? I’ll muck in, too. I’ll cook, clean an’ sow fer yer, an’ keep yer warm at night.”

Barnett grimaces, “At night. No larkin’ ’bout in the streets, mind yer. I’m agin that.”

Maria indicates the grave with her thumb, “An’ end up like ’er? I should
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bleedin’ coco.”

Chapter 17

The Curtain Falls

Deep in thought, Lestrade stares out through the window of his spartan office at Scotland Yard, scarcely noticing the windswept sleet splattering against the panes of glass. A knock at the door breaks his deliberation. Barely moving his head, he murmurs, “Yes, what is it?”

Opening the door, Holmes enters the office, holding a polished mahogany box, “Good morning, Lestrade.”

Lestrade turns away from the window, “Ah, Mr Holmes. Just the fellow.”

Closing the door behind him, Holmes places the box down on Lestrade’s desk, “How can I be of service, Lestrade?”

Lestrade thoughtfully strokes his moustache, “The Thuggee, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes slowly removes his hat, “The Thuggee? Then Watson did make an impression, after all?”

Lestrade shakes his head incredulously, “Fifty thousand people. They murdered fifty thousand people, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes places his hat upon the box, “Perhaps more, Lestrade.”

Lestrade slumps down into a chair behind his desk, “All put to death in the name of religion.”

Stepping towards a cast-iron stove in the room, Holmes warms his hands, “Convince an ignorant people they are serving a higher deity, and they will do anything, even commit murder. Offer them an alternative to this world, eternal paradise, and they will willingly die for such a faith.”

Lestrade exhales loudly, “Madness, Mr Holmes. Utter madness.”

Holmes seats himself in front of the desk, raising a tutorial finger, “Not to the misguided, Lestrade. Which presents us with another problem. How to persuade the delusional they are indeed wrong.”

Lestrade replies laconically, “As long as they remain over there, and we remain here, I see no problem, Mr Holmes.”

“Trade and modern inventions, Lestrade.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Trade and modern inventions will undoubtedly bring nations closer together, but they will not necessarily unite them. A clash of opposed cultures is inevitable. Perhaps a century or two from now, a barbarous faith might attempt to impose its doctrine upon our civilization by committing atrocious acts of mass murder, not dissimilar to those perpetrated by the Thuggee, Lestrade.”

Lestrade counters, “Then you’ll forgive me if I don’t wait around to see it happen.” He stares at Holmes enquiringly, “Where’s...?”

“At his medical practice, wondering why Dr Reuben Sleeman is not in attendance, no doubt.”

Lestrade frowns, “Dr Sleeman? Never heard of him.”

“Jack the Ripper, Lestrade.”

Lestrade catches his breath, “Good Lord.”

Holmes adds, “Known to both of us as Aaron Kosminski and to me, in particular, as Professor James Moriarty.”

Lestrade shakes his head bemusedly, “Correct me if I am wrong, Mr Holmes. But didn’t I read somewhere that you had disposed of Professor Moriarty at the...?”

Holmes interjects, “The man I disposed of at the Reichenbach Falls was Miles Milverton. A music hall entertainer who pretended to be Moriarty. Although I was not aware of it at the time.”

A knock at the door interrupts their conversation.

Lestrade snaps impatiently, “Yes, what is it?”

Opening the door, a helmetless police sergeant pokes his head into the office, “Sorry to disturb you, Inspector, but we’ve just got word on Inspector Fell, H Division.”

“What about him?”

“He’s been fished out of the Thames. Someone cut his throat.”

Lestrade nonchalantly leans back in his chair, “Approached the wrong brothel-keeper, did he?”

Holmes raises an inquisitive eyebrow, “Extortion, Lestrade?”

Lestrade nods, “We’ve had our eye on him for some time.”

Holmes wistfully stares at the ceiling, “Come to spy on us, more like it.”

Lestrade drums the surface of his desk with his fingers, “What’s that, Mr Holmes?”

Holmes lowers his gaze, “Inspector Fell said that to me when Watson and I first met him in the workhouse mortuary. At the time, I thought it a strange remark. But now, of course, it assumes a greater significance.”

“That he suspected we might be on to him?”

“Evidently so, Lestrade.”

Turning back to the sergeant, Lestrade scowls, “Well, what am I supposed to do, bury him?”

The sergeant stiffens, “No, of course not, Inspector. Thought you ought to know, that’s all.”

Lestrade waves him away with his hand, “Yes, yes. Thank you. Now run along and catch a criminal.”

Quickly withdrawing his head from the room, the sergeant quietly closes the door.

Lestrade leans forward, placing both his elbows upon the desk, “Dr Reuben Sleeman. A close associate of Dr Watson, was he?”

Holmes replies, “Dr Reuben Sleeman and Watson were business partners. They ran a medical practice in Paddington.”

Lestrade gently strokes his chin with his finger, “And if it were made known that Dr Sleeman was Jack the Ripper, Dr Watson would be ruined, right?”

Holmes nods, “Exactly, Lestrade. Now that I have informed you of his name, I wish to ask for something in return.”

“Quid pro quo, Mr Holmes.”

“Yes, Lestrade.”

“My silence?”

Holmes stares at Lestrade intently, “The reputation of Dr Watson and his wellbeing is of paramount concern to me. No one outside this room, including Watson, must ever know the true identity of Jack the Ripper. You have no tangible proof against Dr Sleeman, nor his body to determine who he was. Any attempt by you to inform your superiors about what I have imparted to you and I will deny this conversation ever took place.”

Folding his arms, Lestrade leans back in his chair again, “Then, officially, the identity of the man who committed the Whitechapel murders will forever remain a mystery.
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Hardly a feather in your cap, Mr Holmes. Is that what you want?”

Holmes slaps the surface of the desk with his hand, “Yes! Let us be rid of this infernal case and leave it to the historians to squabble over the mystery.”

Lestrade unfolds his arms, “Dr Watson is most fortunate to have a friend such as you. You have my word, Mr Holmes.
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I will bite my tongue. The case is closed, but for the record, the file will have to remain open. If I were to close it now, awkward questions would be asked from above.”

Holmes smiles warmly, “An admirable arrangement, Lestrade.”

Lestrade taps the mahogany box, “What’s this, then?”

Retrieving his hat, Holmes stands, “A keepsake. Something I thought you should have.” He politely tips his head, “Good day, Lestrade.”

Lestrade reciprocates, stands and tips his head.

Holmes pauses by the door, struck by a feeling of remorse, “You were quite right, Lestrade.”

Lestrade cocks his head enquiringly, “I was? About what?”

Holmes murmurs, “Mary Kelly.” He slowly turns to Lestrade, “If I had relented and directed you to Dr Sleeman as you had asked, she would be alive today.”

“You had no alternative, Mr Holmes. You were obliged to consider the welfare of Dr Watson.”

Holmes concurs, “Quite so, Lestrade.” He then reiterates a sentiment, comparable to that which he had uttered to Watson at the Reichenbach Falls nearly seven months previously, “If it should ever strike you that I am becoming a little arrogant, or not giving a particular case the attention that it deserves, kindly remind me of that unfortunate woman, Lestrade, and I shall be indebted to you yet again.” He tips his head for a second time, “Good day.” Opening the door, he departs.

Slowly sitting, Lestrade slides the mahogany box closer to him. Raising its lid, he stares at the inset Liston surgical knife contained within. Picking up a small card, which accompanies the instrument, he reads:

       
Due to your stalwart support, this knife, designed to

        alleviate pain, will never be wielded in anger again.

Returning the card to the box, Lestrade murmurs deferentially, “You’re a gentleman, Mr Holmes. A right fine gentleman, indeed.”

♦
♦
♦
♦
♦

Sitting in the armchair beside the burning fire in the sitting-room, Holmes puffs at his cherry-wood pipe, whilst scrupulously examining a bulbous-headed walking stick laying across his knees. He glances at Watson seated opposite him, partially concealed by an open copy of
The Times
newspaper, “Evidently something troubles you, my dear fellow?”

From behind the newspaper, Watson replies reticently, “I can assure you, Holmes, that is not the case.”

Holmes leans back in his armchair, “When a doctor returns from his surgery and hardly says a word all afternoon, he invariably has something on his mind.” He exhales smoke, “Something which troubles him, Watson.”

Conceding, Watson gradually lowers his newspaper, “You are quite right, Holmes.” He shakes his head despondently, “It is not done. It is simply not done!”

“Come, come, Watson. The facts, please.”

Watson blurts, “The blighter has up and left me, Holmes.”

Holmes sighs impatiently, “Calm yourself. Your incoherency does not aid the situation, Watson.”

Watson puts aside his newspaper, “Dr Sleeman. I called at our surgery this morning and found him absent. Our secretary, Mrs Hawthorn, said she had not seen him since Friday last. Concerned that he might be unwell, I visited his apartment, which is above the surgery. Getting no response, I eventually forced the door, using a crowbar borrowed from a builder’s yard across the street.”

“And when you entered, you found what?”

Watson stammers incredulously, “Nothing, Holmes. Absolutely nothing. The entire apartment was empty. Every piece of furniture had been removed, including the carpet and rugs. The place was utterly bare, as if no one had ever resided there.”

“No letter of explanation, no forwarding address?”

Watson shakes his head again, “He had simply disappeared. Vanished, if you like. But I didn’t stop there. I went to
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Coutts & Co. in
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Edgware Road and found, to my dismay, that he had closed our business account, after withdrawing the sum of four hundred and sixty guineas.”

“And this withdrawal occurred when?”

“Thursday afternoon.”

“The day before Dr Sleeman was last seen by Mrs Hawthorn on the Friday?”

Watson nods.

Holmes deliberates, “Clearly he needed money. Therefore, the contents of the apartment were removed and sold off during the weekend. And then he skedaddled yesterday, whilst you and I were attending the funeral of Mary Kelly.”

Watson picks up his pipe, “But why should Dr Sleeman abandon our medical practice so suddenly, Holmes? After all, our enterprise has been quite successful.”

Holmes taps the walking stick laying across his knees with the end of his pipe, “It is an time-honoured maxim of mine that when a person such as Dr Sleeman takes flight, he does so because he believes his life, or his liberty, is about to be cut short. In this particular case, by a
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cuckolded husband, I suspect.”

About to light his pipe, Watson suddenly extinguishes the match, “Good Lord, Holmes! Lady Henrietta Iverton.”

“A frequent patient of Dr Sleeman’s, Watson?”

“Yes, Holmes. Quite frequent, according to Mrs Hawthorn.”

“And what of Lord Iverton?”

“Fifteen years her senior and utterly odious. I had the misfortune to meet him once.”

Holmes enquires, “Where?”

“He accompanied Lady Iverton on one of her appointments to see Dr Sleeman. A vile man with a horrid temper. He treated her as if she were a piece of property. An acquired object, if you will, tolerated by him for his own gratification.”

Quickly placing his pipe in the ashtray, Holmes excitedly claps his hands together, “Bravo, Watson! You have revealed why Dr Sleeman had fled so abruptly. Lady Iverton, starved of affection, had turned to Dr Sleeman for romance, but Lord Iverton had found out about their clandestine liaison and, in turn, had offered Dr Sleeman one of two choices. Leave the country forthwith, or remain and face the dire consequences.”

Watson stares at him in astonishment, “Astounding, Holmes. Why did I not think of that?”

Heartened that Watson has embraced his fictitious explanation, Holmes adds, “Of course, unless Dr Sleeman can be located, we may never know for certain. As for Lord and Lady Iverton, I would strongly advise against approaching either of them on the matter.”

Watson concurs, “Quite so, Holmes. To broach the subject with that tyrant would be tantamount to taking one’s own life.”

Holmes retrieves his pipe, “Well, my dear fellow, it would appear you are now the proprietor of a medical practice. With a modest list of patrons, some notable, I might add.”