The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (31 page)

Holmes smiled. “I have it in mind to write a monograph on the subject someday: It has long been an interest of mine. As the Yorkshireman speaks in a dialect as distinct in its character and makeup from, say, a native of Dover or the Midlands, natives of London speak in dialects that can differ sharply from one neighborhood to the next. Why, I know a professor of phonetics who, I promise you, can listen to the calls of the flower girls in Covent Garden and be able to determine
with an uncanny degree of accuracy what districts they come from. He can tell you not only the districts, but in some cases even the very streets in which they live, for the dialects are often subtly different from one street to the next, you see.”

Shaw looked at him with interest and stroked his beard. “You amaze me, Mr. Holmes! Can this chap truly do that?”

“With an uncanny degree of accuracy,” repeated Holmes. “You will find that the dialect spoken in Lisson Grove, for example, is quite different from that of Earl’s Court or Hoxton or Selsey. I flatter myself that I can often place an individual within a few miles of his or her place of origin, sometimes within a few streets, but my ability to do so pales in comparison to his.”

“How simply wonderful!” said Shaw, his red beard bobbing with pleasure. “If ever you do complete your monograph, you must send it around to me. I am quite intrigued by what you say.” He held out his hand to be shaken. “This has been a most entertaining and instructive little chat. But now you must excuse me, I really should be off. The hour grows late and I have a deadline to meet.” He favored Holmes with a parting wink. “Covent Garden, eh? Well, I will be sure to engage the flower girls in conversation when next I go there.”
⁶⁸

Holmes and Watson departed shortly after, much to Watson’s relief. Not only was he decidedly uncomfortable in the company of these fops, these effete dandies with their studied mannerisms and peculiar values (not to mention the, er, sexual proclivities of at least some of them), but he was highly curious to learn from Holmes his reason for wanting to visit this place to begin with. Obviously he did not come on a lark, he had an ulterior motive, and Watson was most eager to discover what it was.

They had retrieved their hats and cloaks and were exiting through the door when the clatter of a coach drawing up at the end of the
mews caught their attention. It was a shiny black brougham drawn by a magnificent, glistening pair, leather harnesses liberally appointed with silver trappings. A small, discreet crest was emblazoned on the coach’s door, but it could not be made out in the dim light.

Three men in evening dress alighted from the conveyance as Watson and Holmes walked toward it, two of them showing obvious deference to the third, a slight young man of below average height who emerged last from the carriage, a dark, open cloak thrown carelessly over his shoulders. He took in his surroundings with a bored, supercilious air.

The two other men looked to be at least a few years older, and there was something about one of them that suggested he would have been more at ease in uniform, for his bearing was unmistakably military, while the third man bore the careless slouch of a civilian, one hand in trouser pocket, the other casually holding a cigarette.

Their faces became momentarily distinguishable as they passed beneath the streetlight, and Holmes in that fleeting instant studied them intently. The oddest thing, the single most noticeable thing, it seemed to Watson as the trio came closer, had to do with the younger man’s appearance, but it took a moment before he realized what it was: The winged collar of his shirt seemed to be cut unnaturally high, almost ridiculously so, the better presumably to hide an unusually long, thin neck, though in reality it served only to call attention to it. Watson caught a glimpse of his face as he walked past. There was something else about him, something familiar, but Watson just could not put his finger on it. He had a small upturned mustache and a vacuous look about him: Large, languid, heavily lidded eyes that moved neither left nor right and seemed focused on nothing, as if everything worth seeing in the world had already been seen and further observation was superfluous. He led his companions past Holmes and Watson without appearing to notice them at all.

Holmes stepped to one side and tipped his hat deferentially, and Watson suddenly gasped in recognition. He, too, stepped aside but was not quick enough to reach for his hat. He merely gaped in astonishment as Holmes bowed his head slightly and said, “Good evening, Your Royal Highness.”

Without a nod or upward glance the young man entered the house, his two companions following closely behind. One of them, the civilian, paused momentarily to glance back at Holmes, taking a last puff from his cigarette and casually letting it fall to the ground before proceeding. The green door closed quickly behind him.

“That young man!” exclaimed Watson breathlessly. “Good Lord, wasn’t that — ?”

“Indeed it was,” replied Holmes, a thoughtful, even troubled look upon his face.

S
ATURDAY
, O
CTOBER
27-S
UNDAY
, O
CTOBER
28, 1888

“It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

—
The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet

H
is Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor, known to friends and public alike as Prince Eddy, was a grand-child of Queen Victoria’s, one of the many who, by virtue of numerous carefully arranged marriages over the years, was to be found in virtually every major royal Protestant family on the European continent (and some that were not so major, and even one or two that were not so Protestant). Not for nothing was the Queen-Empress known as “the grandmother of Europe.”

But Albert Victor held a special place among her grandchildren. He was the eldest son of her eldest son, Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales, and as such was Heir Presumptive to the throne of England.

Watson had been utterly shocked to witness His Highness enter the establishment that he and Holmes had just departed. For an heir
to the throne to be seen in the company of such individuals as were present in that house (“fops and pederasts and godknowswhat,” in Watson’s words) was most unseemly and highly disturbing. Ever the proper Englishman, Watson adhered to a rigid code of what was right and what was wrong, and the higher one’s station in life, the higher the standard to which that individual was held. The prince’s presence among individuals of questionable morality, to say the least, deeply offended Watson’s sense of propriety. Holmes, on the other hand, seemed neither shocked nor surprised, but he was troubled, that much was evident. He remained steadfastly silent during the ride back to Baker Street, the gleam of the streetlights flashing upon his saturnine features revealing a look of concern: Chin in hand, thin lips compressed, eyes staring off into space. Watson knew better than to break into his deliberations. Even though there were several questions he was burning to ask, he showed great self-restraint and remained silent also. But once back in their rooms in front of the fire, snifters of brandy close at hand, Watson could contain himself no longer.

“What do you suppose he was doing there?”

Holmes did not even look up. “I have not the foggiest notion.”

“Not a guess?”

“You know I never guess.”

“I cannot believe it! The prince, of all people.”

“Your eyes did not deceive you, unless mine did so as well.”

“I just cannot credit it!”

“You have already made that point abundantly obvious. Further repetition is not required.”

“Do you think he is on intimate terms with any of those people? Friends with them, I mean?”

“That point, too, is obvious, or at least can be safely assumed. His Highness has somewhat of a reputation for unsavory associations.”

“I had not heard that,” said Watson in a shocked tone.

“The palace has not seen fit to announce it.”

Watson bridled a little at Holmes’s sarcasm, but understood the meaning behind it. The press treated the Royals, as they were collectively called, with the softest of kid gloves, and rarely was anything ever printed about them without the prior approval of those court functionaries whose job it was to manage such affairs. Even the Prince of Wales’s notorious peccadillos, well known throughout Europe and the subject of endless gossip, were treated gingerly by the minions of Fleet Street. Scandals involving the lusty, fun-loving heir — and his name had been connected with several — saw print only on the rare occasions when they reached open court. And even then, where he was concerned the published accounts were subdued, cautious, and most respectful. Of his young sons Eddy and George, nothing untoward had ever been printed. Neither had ever had a hint of scandal attached to their names, and Watson was taken aback at Holmes’s disclosure.

“You know that as a fact? About Prince Eddy’s associations, I mean.”

“It is not widely known. The gossip has been restrained, but even his royal father is said to have despaired of him, and that is saying some.”

“Good Lord, I cannot credit it!”

“So you have said.”

“I just cannot credit it.”

Holmes sighed. “Watson, my dear, dear chap, you can be most trying at times.”

“I? I can be trying? Really, Holmes, that is most absurd of you. It was not I who dragged
you
off to some — some den of iniquity populated by spoiled, rich sodomites with their preposterous talk and ridiculous mannerisms. It is not I who — who —”

Holmes held up his hand. “Point well taken. I pray you, do not belabor it.”

“Why did we go there anyway? Surely you must have had some object in mind.”

Holmes nodded. “Sleeve links,” he replied.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I went to take note of their sleeve links.” He waved a hand airily and added, half under his breath: “Among other things.”

“Great Scot!” Watson stared at him in disbelief. “Do you mean you think one of them — one of
them
— might be the Ripper?”

“I don’t know, but there is evidence that suggests just such a possibility. Circumstantial evidence, to be sure, but too strong to ignore, far too strong to prevent me from drawing certain inferences. If you were wondering where I was those few days I was gone, I spent a good part of my time in front of a particular house on a particular street in Whitechapel, observing the comings and goings at all hours of an interesting assortment of gentlemen, some known to me by sight, others not. They had one thing in common, these gentlemen: They were decidedly out of place. Every single one of them was a member of the upper classes, and one must wonder what business they had in the slums, in what is without question one of the worst streets in London and one of the most opprobrious addresses.”

Holmes warmed his glass with his hands and took a sip of brandy before continuing. “On three separate occasions I followed individuals from that address in Whitechapel to the one at which we were reluctant, not to mention uninvited, guests this evening. Each of those individuals, I observed, was wearing sleeve links of gold and blue enamel.”

Watson’s eyes went wide. “Three of them!”

“For all I know, there may have been a dozen or more. There weren’t that many whose shirt cuffs were clearly visible to me, but of those who were, a total of five wore sleeve links that appeared to be the same. And, as I said, three of them led me to the address in Chelsea.”

“And their sleeve links were identical?”

Holmes gave him an exasperated look. “Of course, I did not approach the gentlemen in question and ask to examine their fastenings, but insofar as I could tell from a reasonable distance, they appeared identical.”

Watson bit his lower lip and shook his head from side to side, bewildered. “What do you make of it, Holmes? Some sort of club or society, do you think?”

“That would not be an unreasonable inference, but I do not have enough data upon which to draw a definite conclusion. We must await a reply to the wire I sent off to Kock’s.”

Watson pondered over the matter for a while longer. “This house that you mentioned, what kind of an establishment is it? Whitechapel is hardly where one might expect to find a proper gentlemen’s club.”

Holmes smiled sardonically. “The street, as I said, has the reputation for being one of the lowest, most notorious in all of London. It most definitely is not where one would locate a respectable club. No, this establishment is apparently a fellowship of another kind. It is a house of prostitution.”

“Oh.”

“A house of male prostitution.”

Watson’s features twisted in revulsion. “Oh, good Lord!”

“It is frequented by certain otherwise respectable members of the upper strata of society who undoubtedly harbor, shall we say, unnatural cravings. That sort of thing is not unknown, as you of all people, a physician, should be well aware.”

“Yes, but still...” Watson’s voice trailed off, his expression one of extreme distaste.

“But still, it is no less repugnant, I totally agree. You know very well my thoughts on the matter, as I know yours, so we need not dwell upon
it. But we cannot ignore the fact that the practice is widespread, perhaps more so in our society than anyone has imagined.”