Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (31 page)

Holmes took a deep breath. “Doctor, I am not implying that someone under your charge could be responsible for the murders in Whitechapel. I am simply trying to stop the person responsible. Is there any other suggestion you might provide?”

Dr. Orange thought for a moment. “A relative, perhaps? There is some research that insanity can be passed on through heredity. I have heard of a young, ambitious doctor named Steward at the Brook Asylum in Clapton. You may want to pay him a visit.”

“Thank you Dr. Orange.”

Orange watched Holmes go to the large doors and press them open. “Close them tightly when you leave, Mr. Holmes. It has come to the point where I am more afraid of the world outside those doors than of the few lunatics confined within.”

TWENTY NINE

“Almost at Shoreditch Mortuary, Inspector,” the carman said.

Lestrade pulled the cloth away from his neck, frowning at the blood on it. The cuts left by his razor had finally stopped bleeding. He stuffed the rag into his pocket and rubbed the raw skin on his chin and throat. He smelled the cuffs of his shirt several times, reveling in the familiar scent of Carrie’s favorite washing soap. She’d put on a good show in front of the children, Lestrade thought.

“Why do you have to leave?” Little Gerard said as he was told them goodbye.

“Your father is going to put an end to someone very evil,” Carrie said. “All of us should be very proud of him.”

“Be careful, Father,” Julliette said.

Lestrade kissed his daughter on the nose, “I will, princess.”

“Are you going to kill the bad man?” Little Gerard asked.

“No, of course not,” Lestrade replied. “We are going to bring him to justice. It is not our job to go around killing people, son.”

Unless they really deserve it, Lestrade thought now, thinking of Mary Jane Kelly’s body as he’d found it. A team of journalists surrounded the front door to the mortuary. As the carman brought the carriage to a stop, he barked at them all to back off and let Lestrade through. It was Mary Jane Kelly’s last few hours above the earth, and the press wanted to capture in every detail the events of her body being driven to Walthamstow Catholic Cemetery. Several journalists recognized Lestrade and cried out his name, peppering him with questions about the investigation. He ignored the men and their queries and signaled to the constables guarding the front door to push everyone back enough to let him in.

The mortuary’s greeting room was silent and dark. The visiting room was empty save for the open coffin of Mary Jane Kelly and a well-dressed man sitting in the pew closest to it. Lestrade took off his hat and walked up to the coffin. He was nervous about what he would see there, but Kelly’s entire face and neck were covered in white bandages. Someone had paid for her to be buried in an expensive gown. Somehow, the undertaker had managed to fill the voids of her body’s empty cavities so that her corpse appeared whole. Lestrade could not help picturing her on her bed at Thirteen Miller’s Court and his hands started to shake. He turned to the man sitting near him, offered his hand and said, “Gerard Lestrade.”

The man looked at him for a moment, and clasped his hand tightly, “Bond. Thomas Bond.”

“The Division A police surgeon?” Lestrade asked. “You did the post-mortem on her. I read your report.”

Bond just stared at the coffin. “I keep seeing it over and over again, Inspector. I’ve been a police surgeon for twenty years and I served in the military before that. I have seen death and destruction in many forms, but this was something completely different. The man that killed her… I’d studied the medical notes from his previous murders, and then the torso they found out in Whitehall. I fancied myself some sort of expert. Can you imagine that? When I went to Thirteen Miller’s Court, I realized how little I knew.”

“Not quite the same, seeing them in person,” Lestrade said.

“No, not quite the same. He wanted us to find her like that, I think. He wants us to know just how much of a monster he is, if only to terrify us.”

“You are probably right. Who paid for the coffin and the dress? Was it you?” Lestrade said.

“I thought she deserved at least that little bit of dignity.” Bond unscrewed the cap from a silver flask and took a long drink from it. He wiped his mouth and held the bottle out toward Lestrade. “Bit of Gordon’s, Inspector?”

“No thank you, Dr. Bond. I must be going. It really is a lovely dress. That was most kind of you.”

“What are you doing here, anyway? Still looking for clues?”

“No. I just wanted to see her and let her know that I did not forget my promise. We will hunt this bastard across the earth if needed. He will not kill again.”

“God help you, Inspector,” Dr. Bond said, lifting his flask to his lips. “God bless you, but God help you.”

~ * * * ~

Sherlock Holmes entered the Brooke Asylum, walking toward the desk nurse. “Good afternoon, madam. Is there a Dr. Steward present in this facility?”

The nurse checked her chart. “He is down the hall to the right with patients in the east wing. Just follow the sound of screaming.”

“Thank you, I think,” Holmes said, tipping his hat at her. He travelled the corridor quickly, hearing a great din of screaming and yelling from the room ahead. He entered a large community room crammed with patients and staff members. Some of the patients wore restraints, and some sat quietly playing card games. Others fought with the staff, trying to rip the chairs and tables from the floor to fling them, but they were bolted firmly to the ground. A few of them copulated in a corner together, taking turns climbing on one another’s backs like animals. Holmes saw a man in a white coat peering at notes on a clipboard and approached him. “Are you Dr. Steward?”

“Yes I am. May I help you?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. Dr. Orange of Broadmoor recommended I meet with you. It is about the killings in Whitechapel.”

“Really? Fascinating!” Dr. Steward said. “What would you like to know?”

Holmes explained his understanding of “Inherited Insanity” and how it might pertain to the research Dr. Steward was conducting, but before he finished, the doctor was frowning and shaking his head. “All of our patients are accounted for, and I have never seen one who fits your criteria, Mr. Holmes. That being said, I do think it is highly possible that your suspect would be related to one of our inmates.”

“What makes you say that, Doctor?”

“I have been doing a fair amount of research into the heredity of mental aberration. Several of my patients exhibit the same symptoms of their ancestors, and I am convinced that they inherit these traits in the same way that we do others. Are you familiar with the writings of Charles Darwin, by any chance?”

Holmes nodded, following Dr. Steward as he looked over his patients, making notes on his charts. He checked off a series of blocks for each, then pointed ahead to an older woman sitting by herself at a table, staring blankly. “Darwin teaches us that everything comes from heredity. The youngest of the species is taught by its parents, over and over, until the behavior is ingrained in us biologically. If someone possessed a homicidal impulse, there is a strong chance that it could be passed on to one of their children.”

“Indeed?” Holmes said. “So, have you had any inmates who might be capable of a particularly gruesome murder?”

“No.”

“Of course not.” Holmes checked his pocket watch. “Thank you for your time, Doctor. I must be going. There is much to be done. Good day—”

“You!” an old woman hissed at Holmes from across the room. “I know you,” she said. She lifted a crooked finger at Holmes’s face. “I know you, for I saw you in my dreams. You are coming for him, but you will be struck down by his blade!”

“What now?” Dr. Steward said, looking over his shoulder. “Calm down, Mrs. Druitt.”

Ann Druitt moved slowly, dragging her slippers on the tile floor. She laughed, “You cannot stop us. Not you, not the simpleton, and not his little trollop. The streets will be washed clean by your blood.”

Dr. Steward lifted his arm to keep Ann from advancing any further. “Just days ago she was a complete invalid, but as of late she’s been babbling nonstop about the killings.”

“He grows stronger than ever feasting on each little piggy’s chitterlings,” she hissed, digging her fingernails into Steward’s arm, trying to pry his fingers away.

“Who does?” Holmes said. Ann spat directly into Holmes’s face. A gob of it ran down his cheek and he wiped it away and said calmly, “Who is growing stronger?”

“You will not live to see the dawn, Sherlock Holmes.” Her voice was no longer that of an old woman but now twisted into something strange and sinister. “He will destroy you.”

“You know my name,” Holmes said. “How peculiar. Perhaps you are right as well about my imminent demise, but if this person is expecting me, it would be most rude of me not to arrive in a prompt fashion. Who is it?”

Ann Druitt collapsed to the ground in seizure. Foam spilled out of her mouth as she wracked back and forth. Dr. Steward told one of the aides to get a few more doctors. Holmes looked down at her in silence, waiting for the seizure to end. Once Ann ceased flopping around, he tapped Dr. Steward on the shoulder. “I require the name of every male member of her family.”

Dr. Steward shrugged his hand away, “It will have to wait, sir. This woman is in immediate need of medical attention.”

Holmes’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “She will not be the only one if I do not get what I require immediately, Dr. Steward.”

THIRTY

Inspector Lestrade looked at Collard and Wensley with disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘nothing!’”

Collard shrugged, “I mean there is nothing in any of the medical school records I checked that show anything close to what Holmes suspected.”

“What about grave robbers? Surely you found something there.”

“About four hundred incidents over the past ten years, mate. People are stealing corpses all over this entire country. It has its own black market and it would take a team of researchers a year to go through every suspect.”

“I guarantee you that Holmes is out there hot on the trail of the Ripper while we lot sit here with our John Thomas’s in our hands. So help me God, I refuse to play the weak sister on this investigation. Christ, we need to get our acts together. What about you?” he said to Wensley.

“No John Watson’s or Irene Adler’s are registered at any of the doss-houses, Inspector. I figured they might be using fake names, so I gave their description to all house deputies as well, but no one recognized them.”

“Well, get back out there and roam the streets until you find them, Wensley. I’ll tell you this much, Lamb had better have some good news for us from those Royal Academy blokes. I’ll go sort out that Darwin fellow out personally if I have to. To hell with him and his blasted monkeys!”

“Why don’t we pull every report of people claiming to have information about The Ripper?” Collard said. “Maybe one who was written off as a lunatic actually had good information.”

“I have a few of the reports lying around here somewhere,” Lestrade said, shuffling his papers. He picked one up, “Here’s a man named Stowell who claims the killer is none other than Prince Albert Victor. Ah, here’s one from scrap dealer in Liverpool who claims to have found Jack the Ripper’s diary. He’s willing to sell it to us for a reasonable fee.”

“How thoughtful of him to keep a personal journal of all his whore-killings,” Collard said, laughing bitterly. “It’ll take a century to untangle this.”

“Let’s go see if Sergeant Byfield has anything better to offer.” Lestrade leaned out of his office and called to Byfield, “You got anything that isn’t complete bollocks in your file of walk-ins for people with information about The Ripper?”

Byfield pointed down at a waste basket next to his feet, “You mean this file?” The basket was piled high with crumpled pieces of paper. “You want to take a Ripper walk-in, you can start with that bloke over there,” the sergeant said. “He says his brother’s the man we’re looking for. Cheers.”

Lestrade looked at the man sitting on the wooden bench in the lobby. His face was smeared with tears. “Fine. I think I will. Excuse me, sir. You have information for us?”

“Yes. My brother Montague Druitt is the killer.”

“Come on into my office, sir,” Lestrade said, holding open the wooden gate.

“His brother and every other loony in Whitechapel,” Sgt. Byfield muttered under his breath.

“Right this way, sir,” Lestrade put his arm on Will’s shoulder. “What’s all this about your brother, now?”

“He said he would hurt my wife if I told anyone,” Will groaned, covering his face. “Oh God, little Monty. How can this be?”

“What makes you so certain he’s the Ripper, Mr. Druitt? We get lots of people who think their relatives are up to no good, but it normally turns out to be nothing.”

“He has not been himself lately,” Will said. “He went missing from his teaching job in Blackheath a few weeks ago, and I found him in Whitechapel, living on the streets. He was covered in blood. I thought he had been attacked, you see?”

“All right,” Lestrade said. He looked at Collard, who held up his hands. “What then?”

“I took him home, and cleaned him up for an important meeting. I thought everything was going to be fine. We went to the meeting, and all of a sudden he starts having some sort of delusion. When I tried to keep him from leaving, he put a knife to my throat and told me.”

“He told you he was Jack the Ripper?” Collard said.

“I could see it in his face!”

Collard frowned and gave the thumbs down sign to Lestrade. Lestrade took a deep breath and sat back in his chair, defeated. Will began talking faster and louder, “He threatened to hurt my wife. You have to believe me!”

“I am sure he only meant to upset you, Mr. Druitt,” Collard said.

“He said he would cut off her breasts!”

Lestrade shot up. “What did you say?”