Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (21 page)

Holmes regarded Brett for a moment, then shrugged. “Very well. If you choose to accuse Watson of murder, that is your right, Chief Inspector, and I will not interfere. Personally, I agree that he has been acting unusually lately, and I could not vouch for his sanity one way or the other.”

“Holmes!” I cried.

“That being said, there are few things that I consider sacred in this world and your inability to pay attention to even the simplest details is something I simply cannot abide.”

“My abilities are none of your concern, Holmes. They seem to have landed me your secretary quite nicely.”

“At present, your abilities are my only concern, Chief Inspector,” Holmes shot back. “For example, if you possessed one single shred of observational skill you would have noticed the state of Watson’s clothing.”

Every head turned and looked me over carefully.

“Obviously, his coat is torn at the pockets and lapels, as if from being pulled and pushed during a great struggle,” Holmes said. “Further, if you had one scintilla of competency, you would see that his face is bloodied and bruised. Yet, Watson has only one small cut on the knuckles of his right hand. It seems to me that would palpably indicate he received a great many blows to the face and yet threw only one punch in return.

“Moreover, if you, in all your egregious browbeating, were instilled with the most infinitesimal speck of intuition, the minutest snippet of insight would doubtlessly make it painfully obvious to you that both the toes and insteps of Watson’s shoes are scraped down past the leather. Clearly, this demonstrates, even to a brainless twit like you, that he was lying on his stomach, scrambling on the ground. Now, please enlighten all of us, Chief Inspector Brett, with all of your enviable skill, how you explain that?”

There was silence, save for the sound of Lestrade who coughed with laughter behind his towel.

Chief Inspector Brett’s face turned crimson. Finally he muttered, “I will not fall for your tricks, Holmes. Watson is under arrest.”

“I will make you a wager, sir,” Holmes said. He stood up and reached into a jar on his mantle. “What amount of money is enough to interest you?” He pulled out a stack of two hundred pound notes wrapped in a bank seal and threw it at Brett’s feet. “How many years of salary is that for you? If you go over and look at Watson’s hands and see gunpowder on the sleeves of his shirt, the money is yours. If you see gunpowder on the cuffs of Miss Adler’s, the money remains with me, and you will leave.”

“Show me your hands,” Brett snarled.

I lifted them for his inspection. Irene held up her hands beside mine and began waving them. “I think these little black spots all over my sleeves are what you are looking for, Chief Inspector,” she said. “These ones that look exactly like spent gunpowder.”

Brett gritted his teeth and turned to Holmes. “This changes nothing, Holmes. We are still arresting John Watson for the Ripper crimes.”

Holmes sat back down and began rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers. “I have tolerated Scotland Yard for far too long. I can see that now. Mrs. Hudson, please notify the Central News Agency that Sherlock Holmes is prepared to sit down with them and discuss the inadequacies of the London Metropolitan Police Service. I have a file containing all of the cases they have taken credit for which were only solved due to my intervention. Now I wish to express my complete and utter lack of faith in their ability to solve these killings. Let them know I recommend the people of Whitechapel rise up and form armed posses to protect themselves and their families.”

“You truly are a bastard,” Brett hissed.

“Better a bastard than a buffoon,” Holmes said. “Take your monkeys and get out of my sight.”

Chief Inspector Brett stormed past us, shoving Irene and me out of the way and charging down the steps. Lestrade was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his face, even as he groaned in agony.

“For God’s sake, this poor man needs medical attention. Unhand me at once,” I said to the constables. They released me and I walked over to Lestrade, asking him to lower the towel. “I am afraid your nose is badly broken, Inspector. I can reset it for you, but it will be quite painful, and I’ll need you to hold still.”

Lestrade nodded, taking a deep breath and holding it, as I put my thumbs against either side of his misshapen nasal bone.

“Ready?” I asked.

Lestrade closed his swollen eyes. I pressed inwards with my thumbs and snapped the cartilage back into place, cracking the bone so loudly that everyone winced. Lestrade cried out and clutched his face but when he looked up, his nose was in its proper position. Finally, he said, “Thank you, Doctor Watson. I have to admit, Holmes. That thing you do is much funnier when I am not on the receiving end of it.”

Holmes took his seat in front of the fire and turned his head away from Lestrade.

“All right,” Lestrade nodded toward Irene and me. “Try to get some sleep, folks. I will talk to the Chief Inspector and see if I can make some sense of this to him. I would not worry about him again. Goodnight.”

The constables followed Lestrade down the steps. Mrs. Hudson scooped up the bloody towel, letting off a string of mutterings as she left the apartment. She gave Irene a sideways look as she passed. I took a deep sigh of relief and said, “Thank God that is over with. Holmes, you have my thanks for saving me, old chap.”

“I shudder to think what would have happened had you not been here,” Irene added. “That was brilliant—”

“Shut up!” Holmes growled. “Would the two of you just shut up for once in your lives? Look at you both, standing there as if you’d just come back from a big adventure. The simpleton doctor and the trollop opera singer, off to catch Jack the Ripper, eh?” He turned on me, “When the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee hangs you from a lamppost I will laugh, Watson. Laugh! And you, the Opera Starlet. I bet Jack the Ripper cannot wait to get his knife into your belly. You will make a prettier picture than the other women, I confess, but after he peels the skin off of your cheeks and chin it will not make much difference now, will it? How dare the two of you go out there without someone to watch over you? You are like two foolish children who need an adult to mind you so you do not get crushed to death crossing the street! Watson, go into your room and do not come out again until you get your wits about you!”

“I am no child,” I said. “Do not speak to me as such.”

“Fine! I shall speak even more plainly to you then. You are an idiot! You have always been an idiot! Everyone that knows you knows that you are an idiot and they detest you for it. If you had any brains at all, you would go find that strumpet governess and marry her immediately before she catches on to exactly how stupid you really are. As for you, Miss Adler, why don’t you go find another Duke, or perhaps even a Prince this time? Stop playing silly games in Whitechapel and get back to what you are really good at. Spreading your legs for men with money.”

I watched Irene tremble as Holmes spoke, but when I put my hand on her I found every muscle in her arm tensed, as if she were ready to strike him. Her words were like steel when she said, “When I met you I thought I had found a man worthy of my company, Holmes. You are nothing special to look at, but the quality of your mind was so singular that I found myself wondering what it would be like to go through life at your side. There were times when I wanted to come running to you, to offer you whatever earthly delight you could dream of, anything to win you. I must be a fool. I actually wrote you that letter asking you to help me put an end to these killings thinking that if you weren’t willing to give up your precious addictions to save London, perhaps you might be in order to be with me.”

Holmes did not move.

“I thank God that I never came to you before finding out what you truly are,” she said. She moved past me to the doorway, then stopped and looked back at me. “Are you coming, John?”

My jaw quivered as my eyes turned hot and moist. I struggled to speak, trying to steady my trembling lips.

Holmes turned on me with utter contempt. My voice shook when I finally found the strength to use it. “You are nothing more than a coward,” I managed. “Perhaps I do not have the same abilities as you but at least I am not sitting up here in this damned apartment hiding. I may, in fact, be an idiot.” Tears started to slide down my face as I spoke, but I did not care. “Maybe everyone truly does agree on this, but I will not sit rotting at your side one second longer while women are being slaughtered. I will not. It isn’t right. If it means my life, I shall use whatever paltry means I have at my disposal to fight him. May you burn in hell for not joining us.”

Holmes reached underneath his chair. He lifted his Moroccan case and opened it,

removing a new vial of cocaine and sharp syringe. He slowly began rolling up his sleeve.

I cleared my throat. “I want you to know that we are finished, Holmes. Forever.”

“Good,” he said. He tied off his arm and made a fist, clenching his fingers until the veins popped out along his arm.

“Forever!” I shouted.

“Are you still here?” he said.

Irene took my hand in hers and interlaced her fingers with mine. She pulled me toward the door and I followed her down the stairs. We walked through the door and away from 221 B Baker Street without looking back.

ACT III

YOU ARE THE QUARRY

SEVENTEEN

Francis Darwin looked at the broken lock on the building’s front door and frowned. He stepped back from the entranceway and checked the address again. 221 B, the sign over the doorway read. He looked up and down the block. “This is definitely Baker Street,” he said to himself. He checked the scrap of well-worn paper in his hand again, already knowing what it said:
221 B Baker Street—S. Holmes

As he knocked on the door, it swung open. The wood frame surrounding the lock was splintered and cracked and shards of it lie scattered on the entryway floor. Darwin’s attention was drawn to the lower apartment’s doorway where he could see people milling about within. The door was marked “221 A” and was broken open. As Darwin looked closer, he saw people stretched out across the floor with their arms and legs akimbo. In the corner, a woman was spread-eagled on the floor. Open sores covered the flesh of her bare thighs. A man leaned against the corner of the wall beside her, pulling his trousers back on and fastening them.

“Fascinating,” he whispered. As he spoke the stench of urine and vomit filled up his nose and he removed his handkerchief and pressed it to his face. He went up the stairs toward the door marked “221 B” and called out, “Mr. Holmes? Hello? Is anyone home?”

From the upstairs entrance he could see a man crouched on the floor, meticulously searching through the piles of the worn carpet. He muttered busily to himself as he inspected the spaces between each minute tuft of fiber.

Darwin swept his face and neck with his handkerchief, taking inventory of the room. There were drawers that had been yanked out of desks and cabinets thrown open with their contents scattered across the floor. Books were strewn about the room and pages of notes covered more areas of the floor than the carpet did. Darwin wrinkled his nose at the distinct odor of rotting food, and as he looked down, he saw several pieces of meat near the entrance. A white cat came from around the chair, sniffed the food and looked up at Darwin with fierce green eyes. “Excuse me, sir?” Darwin said.

“Come not an inch closer!” the man said, waving his hands frantically. “If you step on any of it, I cannot be held accountable for what happens to you.”

“I have not moved at all, sir. Is there any chance I could help find what you are looking for?”

“Lost?” he hissed. “You mean stolen. All of it, stolen while I was sleeping by vile bastards while I slept.”

Darwin looked down the staircase at the people mulling in and out of the lower apartment. “I could ring for the police if you like.”

There was no answer as the man returned to his inspection of the rug. He plucked a tiny fragment of dust from the bottom of the carpet and cried out with great joy. He popped the speck into his mouth and began rubbing the tip of his finger vigorously against his gums, only to spit into his hand. “Chalk,” he moaned. “Confound it!”

Darwin nodded, mystified. “I will leave you to your mission, sir. I apologize for barging in on you like this, but I was under the impression that someone formerly lived here whom I need to meet with. Would you happen to know what became of Sherlock Holmes? It is of incredible importance to me, and I am willing to pay you for the information.” When there was no response, Darwin shrugged and said, “Good day to you then, sir. If you should see Mr. Holmes, please let him know that Francis Darwin called on him. I can be reached at the Royal Society at Carlton House Terrace.”

“Charles Darwin?”

“Charles was my father.”

The man regarded Darwin for a moment, leaning forward and squinting. His drawn, sharp-featured face was lit momentarily by the fire. “My God,” Darwin said softly. “Is that you?”

Sherlock Holmes sat back on his heels, and then lifted himself from the rug. He tied the belt of his gown around his waist and moved toward the chair in front of the fireplace. He waved for Darwin to come in and sit down. Holmes lifted the blanket to his chin and regarded Darwin carefully for a moment. “I wonder what your father would have made of your baldness, Mr. Darwin.”

Darwin sat down. “He would have fretted that it was an inherited weakness passed onto me by him marrying his own cousin. He lived in eternal fear that we had inherited some sort of deficiency.”

Holmes cleared his throat by coughing forcefully several times. “Forgive me, Mr. Darwin. I have not had cause to speak for nearly a week. Tell me, if you do not mind, how many people were there downstairs in Mrs. Hudson’s former apartment?”

“I counted five. Where is Mrs. Hudson?”